Flirtations of Temptation
by merryfortune
Summary: [Surreal Horror AU] HP makes the mistake of allowing Diego Brando in her Church. Seeking bed and board, until the police discover if Brando is Dario's killer, the clergy permits Brando's intrusion upon their life. Despite being a person of interest, HP finds herself intrigued by Brando. He appears to be of the belief they are of the same peculiarities; the very ones HP suppresses.
1. Chapter 1

**Flirtations of Temptation**

 **Chapter 1**

 **:**

H.P knelt down and put her shaky hands on the beam that ran across the oaky pew. She took deep breaths and murmured hymns and prayers and psalms; anything to quell her chattering teeth and aching bones and distract her from the whiplash pain of memories. This was not a regular occurrence but when it struck, it struck hard - almost like the storm outside.

Outside, the homely church Sister H.P made her home was being absolutely lashed by a horrific thunderstorm, although it is the season for such rapture-like weather. The rain was heavy and loud: barraged the roof and window panes like bullets. The nearby river was likely flooded; engorged with all the seasonal water. Left a blur behind wherein nothing could be seen out from inside and perhaps, in from the outside.

H.P was unsure of how much time she had spent listening to the rain and her own agony but a lot of it must have passed for her knees ached but her hands, her hands were quiet. Firm. She had regained composure and was now acutely aware it was past midnight and that her eyes itched with exhaustion.

She wearily got up and she felt like an old woman. As old and as fragile as the other ladies who worked this particular church. She had three senior sisters and they were all elderly; she was the youngest of the four sisters who did missionary work and the like for this church but she felt every bit as aged as those ladies who were in their sixties and seventies despite being a lady of twenty-three.

As H.P rose to her weary feet, she heard a knock on the bolted door. At first, she thought a branch may have come loose from one of the trees that lined the courtyard but it was far too persistent. Though not a curious woman, in times like these, perhaps she ought to investigate and then she heard a voice.

'Help, help, I beg asylum!'

A man's voice that was nearly drowned out by the rain. There was more scratching and knocking. H.P knew it was her duty to give sanctum to this poor man who was caught off-guard by the storm.

She slowly undid the bolt on the door and opened it. Stumbling into her grasp came a blond youth who was considerably shorter than H.P; but she was tall for a woman. He held onto her shoulders; gripped them tight with an iron-like clamp. He nuzzled up close to her neck and breast.

'I have no words to give thanks you kind, Sister.' he said. There was an oddity in his voice; he appeared to slur his "s" sounds. 'I thought for sure I was going to be drowned as a sewer rat out there.'

He looked up at her and H.P thought this man might be considered attractive to some. He had strong features but a curious mark on his face by his mouth. A cut or scar perhaps, fresh too.

'I seek asylum in this Church, may I please get bed rest for just one night. That is all I need. I will be gone by dawn should the weather permit.'

He was begging, grovelling perhaps.

'Well, let's get you out of the cold then.'

H.P pushed him off and through the darkness of the church and outside, she noticed something odd about the stains that marred his black garments. They did not look like wet patches acquired through trekking in the rain. There was mud smeared on his shoes and pant legs.

They moved a little closer into the foyer. A puddle had grown on the floor from where the door had been kept open. It would not be difficult to clean.

'I would be most appreciative if I could use any laundering services you may provide here, I promise a pretty penny for your troubles so that you may continue upkeep of such a lovely chapel.'

'I keep a washtub amongst my things, I am happy to scrub your clothes for you if you like. You must have travelled far, I don't recognise you.'

'Ah, how rude. I am Diego Brando and curious you should mention that. This is my hometown but my mother… relocated when I was but an infant.' He began to take off his outer coat and there was a deep, red stain spreading over part his torso on the white of his blouse. 'And to whom do I owe my thanks to; you do not speak like someone of the area… do I detect a note of Americanism in your tongues?'

'I am Sister Felicity and yes, I am from abroad. You would be correct in thinking I'm American.'

'What brings you across the pond, dear Sister Felicity?'

'I merely wander where my God commands me. I've also been stationed in Italy but it was in brief. My destiny is here, for now.'

'Fascinating.'

'Here, allow me to lead you to your sleeping quarters. I'm afraid we haven't any spare sets of clothes for you unless you would like mine but I feel like my nightgowns would leave you fabric to swim in.'

Brando chuckled. 'That is quite alright, Sister. I prefer to sleep all natural; even on frigid nights like these.'

H.P led him through the upper corridor that connected the public church to the private convent. At first, Brando was content with silence but he appeared to be of the vain sort who love the sound of his own voice as he kept trying to instigate conversation.

'Now tell me Sister, is "Felicity" your real name?' he asked. 'Brando isn't my real surname, I'll let you know that, in all fairness. My mother changed our names to disassociate herself from her husband upon our relocation.'

H.P sighed. 'No, "Felicity" isn't my real name.'

'Oh, do tell?'

'I am afraid not, good sir,' H.P replied tersely, 'that I would be in betrayal of my vows if I were to let you know my real name.'

'Not even a little hint?'

'Not even a little hint.'

H.P paused by the room of one of her cohort. She mused then knocked. Brando noted the door had a plaque and was dedicated to the stationed Father here.

'Father John, we have a guest so do not be alarmed if a stark naked male is roaming the halls come morning in search of clothes.' H.P informed the silent door. She shrugged. 'Well, he can't say I didn't make an effort to warn him… Perhaps you shouldn't leave your room until I return your clothes to you.'

H.P began to move on and her guest continued on her heels. He seemed enamoured with her; not necessarily in a romantic way but he was attracted to her like metals are to a magnet.

Brando snickered. 'You don't seem to be the usual Josephite.' he said.

'Likely because I am not a Josephite.' H.P replied.

'You know what I mean.'

They turned a corner and H.P opened a door. 'There's no lock on it but you are safe here.'

'The priest isn't handsy?' Brando asked.

'That is not something you ought to make light of.' H.P replied.

'Oh? He is?'

'I can assure you, dear Brando, that Father John takes his chastity vow very seriously.'

Brando chortled to himself as he sauntered into the guest room. H.P followed him and he looked around. It was modest, austere, and he suspected that the nunnery was of no different furniture; perhaps clothes stocked in the inelegant drawers.

'This will do nicely, I appreciate your charity, Sister Felicity.'

'It is but my duty.' H.P replied.

'Hm, but calling you Sister Felicity doesn't suit me, I have decided.' Brando informed her. 'I'd feel much more comfortable calling you something a touch more… familiar. My friends, family, fans, and lovers all call me "Dio". I give you permission to address me as such.'

'I am not interested in becoming any of those things to you, Mr Brando.'

She sighed and Brando began to further undress himself. H.P supposed his physique was impressive. He had the body of an athlete: toned and lean but H.P didn't care for it. He had his back to her but as he cast off his shirt, he realised that he could feel eyes on him. He lifted his head, turned it slightly but almost a touch too far; almost to an unnatural degree but it was early in the morning and H.P was tired so perhaps it was her imagination.

'Regretting your choices, Sister?' he asked.

'I'm just trying to work out what sort of person you are.' she replied. 'You gave me no warning and began to undress in front of I, a holy woman.'

'So it isn't just the priest who takes his chastity vows seriously then?'

'Yes.'

'How dull.'

H.P sighed. 'If you wanted your chastity preserved, I could turn around but we are both adults, I thought we could behave as such.'

'You aren't attracted to me at all in the slightest, are you? I've had women trip over themselves to bed me.'

'I am sure those women have enjoyed their choices and I enjoy my own choices as well.'

'Well put.'

He continued to undress. He languidly loosened his pants and H.P half turned away.

'Are you sure?' he asked. 'If we're skirting sin, we may as well go the whole distance. Because I can assure you those women most certainly enjoyed their choices.'

'I am quite well thank you. I know exactly what sort of man you are now.'

H.P turned around and Brando huffed.

'What sort of man do you think I am?'

'One of low morality. I suggest before you leave our quarters, perhaps you ought to go to confession first. Perhaps, you might find a little grace there.'

'How often do you frequent confession, may I ask?'

H.P could hear a snarly smile in his voice; as though we were trying to incite some sort of trickery.

'That is business between God and I.' she replied.

'Well, mine own sins is the business between our Almighty Father and I too.'

The wooden floor creaked. With the creak, another one was brought and now, it seemed as though the whole building was swaying thanks to the wind and rain.

'Are you certain you wish to sleep nude tonight, the private quarters are known to be draughty?' H.P asked.

'It would be indecent to wear the bedclothes of a holy woman.'

'Not out of charity, I suppose.'

'But what if I have immodest thoughts thanks to the wafting smell of you on your clothes?'

'I can assure you, the smell of unscented soap is not the least bit arousing and you will be too cold this room to even care for lust.'

'I'll be sure to remember that when you return my laundered clothes to me. Could you please turn around so I may hand you my clothes? I apologise but it's nearly the end of the world out there and I got very much the worst of it.'

H.P turned around and kept her chin, and her eyes, up. She had no doubt in her mind that this vagrant very much enjoyed the idea of having her witness him naked. But, she was somewhat surprised when she realised he was using his sopping wet clothes as something as a stand-in for modesty. He was slightly wounded; scars and injuries that were half-healed, scabs and bruises. If H.P had to guess, they were a combination of defensive and attacking wounds hence why his back was clear; creamy skin free of degradation.

'I have no words to express my sincerest thanks to you, Sister.'

'H.P.' she replied, unthinkingly.

'Oh? What's this? Have I finally begun to crack the lonesome nun's shell?' he asked, teasingly as he tapped at his lower lip in thought.

Upon bringing attention to his face, H.P noticed how dry his skin was. It was cracked and reminded her of a river bank in drought.

'Perhaps, perhaps not. I will see you in the morning with your clothes. I suggest that you don't do too much wandering lest you scare the sisters. If they saw you, I think they would expect the Devil.'

Brando bore a roguish smile. Perhaps, it would have charmed other women but it made H.P hostile in all honesty. She didn't know what it was about this man, slightly younger than her, but he set her nerves on edge. An uncomfortable feeling but one H.P knew all too well and, in previous experiences, had been found to be addictive.

'Yes, ma'am. I will wait for you to bring back instructions. Until then, any coins you may find in my pockets, please keep so they can go back to the Church and you may continue your good charity.' he said.

'The convent will appreciate your goodwill when it puts local produce on our tables or cleaning supplies in our closets.'

H.P bowed slightly and allowed her eyes to dip down. Brando was not wearing underwear and he was an expected. Pompously proud of an organ of average size; perhaps under, or so by the lengths, H.P had read of in biology textbooks in her youth. She brought herself up and her hair swished beneath her ears.

'Enjoy your stay, Mr. Brando.'

'Your hair is a most curious colour, Sister, tell me for my eyes must be deceiving me but… was that red or pink?'

H.P fumed. 'It must be your eyes. It is dark in here, no electricity or candles after all. My hair is auburn if it is urgent to your knowledge.'

'My mistake. Well, I hope my chores don't keep you too wake, you appear to be getting crabby with tiredness.'

'Sweet dreams.' H.P told him through gritted teeth.

'Sweet dreams.' Brando replied with a most flowery breath.

H.P stepped out of the guest quarters with his clothes over her arm. They were deathly cold. It was amazing that he had survived at all. She wondered how long he had been wandering for before happening upon her church. She chose not wonder why he was there in the first place if this was his hometown. Surely he would have relatives here that he could have sought refuge with first.

H.P returned to her own quarters and lit a candle. A little bit of smoke wafted up in near colourless curls. The fresh wax an oddly soothing smell. She knelt down by her bed and brought out the washtub. The older ladies of the convent had given her space since she was a young woman and supposedly deserved it. H.P knew the truth though. It was because they detested her.

Had heard rumours of her of her prior to her transfer.

Anyone would be afraid of such stories and such circumstances.

H.P yawned as she performed her new chores. Though she was tired, she was still scared to sleep perchance she dreamt and she knew, she would not know sweet dreams. It had been a nightmare, after all, which had kept her praying in the church after midnight.

She was quiet as a mouse as she snuck around the convent, boiling water and pressing clothes. The stains Brando had acquired during the night were difficult but H.P managed. She scrubbed and she scrubbed and she scrubbed until her flesh fell off and into the sudsy, bubbly water and clumped. But surely that was a dream; a peculiar delirium thanks to tiredness.

H.P pegged to the clothes on a line that was strung across her room with clogged fingers; chubby little stubs that were hardly digit-like at all. She went to bed soon after, utterly tired. She fell asleep to the smell of lukewarm water and clean clothes marred with unscented soaps. She fell asleep to the sound of the roof being lashed most viciously by the rain. She fell asleep to the lull of news memories: deviant banter and scratching at the front door.

She awoke to a most confrontational morning, unlike anything she had ever been through before. Though, it came too close to some of her most harrowing experiences but even then, this was abhorrent. Never before had police reported to the church for something like this: a warrant for arrest.

'Sister… Sister Felicity, dearest, Sister!'

H.P stirred to the sound of Sister Josephine's watery voice pressed to the door with the utmost concern. H.P dropped her legs over the sides of her bed and realised, almost idly, that her hands remained as they had been yesterday morning but the echo of a surreal memory attempted to convince her otherwise. Along her long fingers and knobbly knuckles, she found no fault. Although, they were still vaguely prune-like thanks to her early morning laundering of Brando's clothes.

Brando.

She sighed and then huffed and then decided it was best to face Sister Josephine's madness head-on. H.P would allow herself to be accountable for whatever that vagrant had done during the night.

H.P was not prepared for what Sister Josephine had to say about Brando as H.P was unaware of the police presence swarming at the front of the church.

H.P sluggishly got to the door and opened it. 'Yes?' she said, her voice clogged with sleep.

'Are you the one who brought Diego "Dio" Brando into our good establishment?' she asked.

'Yes. And I am aware he is a lusty rogue but I assure you, his flirtations mean no harm. I doubt he would rob us whilst wearing nothing; not even his drawers and the like.'

Speak of the Devil and he is sure to appear, Brando came into view behind Sister Josephine whom he was lucky to tower over. He wore his sheets like a toga; like the men in statues, H.P had seen in Italy. She rolled her eyes. He bore a ridiculous grin and brought her attention to his garments through gesture. He seemed quite proud of his handiwork.

'Are you aware that it is not theft or crimes of sex that he has sought asylum for?'

'Oh, so he is but a traveller with no home.' H.P said. 'Huh, I hadn't expected that. I thought for certain he was a petty thief.'

'Sister Felicity!' Sister Josephine yelped and then became afraid of her own voice. 'Sister Felicity, she repeated herself quieter this time, terrified, 'he has been charged with murder; patricide, no less!'

'I can assure you, darling Sister Josephine, my father's death has nothing to do with me. I wanted to reconcile with that man despite our past. Make a fresh start, re-establish a father-son bond. Perhaps we could have played catch today. Besides, you heard the Constable. He'd never seen such handiwork before. Inhuman, he was telling you, remember or has old age begun to rob you of life's smallest pleasure: memories?' Brando prattled.

H.P licked her lips. 'I… I need to get ready for the day.' she sputtered. Her hands began to shake; she paled.

'What's the matter, dear Sister Felicity? You look like you've seen a ghost.' Brando asked.

'I need a moment, that is all.' H.P said.

'Yes, you would… wouldn't you?' Sister Josephine agreed, almost accusingly.

Or was H.P imagining it?

Of course, she was imagining it. She was as tired as the dead and had just been told the man she had welcomed as a guest as a possible murder suspect. Of course, she was imagining it for Sister Josephine was a meek and docile old woman and wouldn't purposefully say something to accuse H.P through the contrary.

H.P slunk off and awkwardly shut her door in the faces of Sister Josephine and Brando. There was sweat dripping down the side of her face and it was getting awfully humid in here. Perhaps it was because it was the morning after a vicious springtime rain. Yes, that had to be it. Certainly. Most certainly.

H.P was quick to get into her sisterly uniform. She slipped a habit over her head and she prayed that she had been imagining but she could have sworn. No, that was ridiculous, of course, she was imagining it. But, she could have sworn the hair she wore to the sides of her face, the hair that framed her face, had turned a crisp pink that was too many shade variations from the auburn that it was supposed to be.

He remembered this morning when she had spoken to Brando and has mentioned confession. It just struck her, right now, that she hadn't gone for ten days now. She usually visited in periods of two weeks. That was her routine. No wonder things were becoming complex but there were too many factors at play here, right now and too many unreal things were happening.

H.P drew close to the window. There were gorgeous stained glass artworks imbued in the planes so she couldn't see out of them without a prismatic rendition of reality. So, she opened it just a crack. She caught a puff of wind: refreshing, cold wind that still carried the scent of fresh water. She glanced around, did her best to not be seen from her vantage point, and confirmed it.

She was not familiar with the individuals themselves, not when they were dolled up in their police uniforms and the like anyway, but she knew of them. They went to church frequently enough; she had served them communion a few times, she was quite certain.

These men clustered around the front door. They skulked and stalked around like predators after prey. Whilst H.P could not discern the crime, it was apparent that they were looking for a criminal trapped in the church.

H.P closed the window and locked it. Her knees grew weak. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. She returned to her door and greeted Sister Josephine and Brando; they were also now accompanied by Father John and Sister Bridgette. A most divine wrath was brewing and H.P was determined to face it all.

She stepped outside of her room and Brando elected to join her. Soon, they were encircled by everyone who made their home in this church. The only one missing was Sister Agatha and she the most charismatic and charming of the Sisters here so she was likely trying to peace keep in the foyer.

'I am not familiar with the processes in which we must go through as these are serious allegations Mr Brando is facing. However, I was the one who allowed him into our midsts… I even washed his clothes for him.'

Brand smirked.

H.P was, for all intents and purposes she realised now, an accomplice in his crimes of patricide.

'Dearest Sister Felicity, I can assure you. I have no blood on my hands.'

He raised his hands and bore them, as though to prove they were clean but all he did was made H.P notice how grotesque his fingers were. His nails were ugly; almost claw-like and his skin was rough and nigh crocodilian.

'And I can assure you that my clothes were only muddied from the time I spent adrift last night. I have returned to this town after twenty years to remedy the bond between my father and I. I have nothing but the most sincerest wish to reconnect with Dario despite the fact twenty years ago, he and my mother attempted to kill me… I believe it was a night like last night in which the river flooded and the rains were biblical. God saved me then and he will save me again, I am certain.' Brando bragged.

Then, he shrugged. 'I would mourn but how does one mourn their would-be murdered? A man whom they do not know? I believe the beast that slew my father was not me. I am but human: I bear no fangs or claws and I believe it were such weapons which shredded my father to deat,; or so I have been informed by the same source as you: that courageous Constable Kelly. I admire his work, I would not have been able to stomach the sight of such a ravaged corpse in person.'

He talked a pretty word but H.P sensed there was something lurking beneath the surface of such eloquence. Something horrific.

'By this man's word, we may believe he has confirmed and sustained belief in God-'

'I was confirmed under the name of Saint Anthony of Padua, you know.' Brando piped up obnoxiously.

'Then, until his suspected crimes prove true, we will give him sanctuary on the good faith that he is innocent. However, Constable Kelly is under the impression that it will take five days to gather the evidence he needs to prove his hypothesis that Diego Brando murdered his father Dario. After all, our sanctuary does not mean much in this new age of legality and science.' Father John declared.

'Padre, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. If it were I, I would spurn my request for asylum but I assure you, I am a good Catholic boy at heart. It breaks my heart to know my father is dead and it is not in Heaven where he rests. He had the gall to refute my olive branch and he left me to drown in those rains last night just as he had tried twenty years ago.' Brando said.

Father John took a sharp breath and he eyed H.P.

'Sister Felicity,' he began, 'for the next five days, I would appreciate it if you kept our guest on a short leash and a sharp eye on him. He is to not leave our holy grounds for if he does, he is a dead men. The police wish to crucify him.'

'I will make certain that he is on his best behaviour.' H.P replied. 'I will also make sure he assimilates into our way of life over the next few days.'

'For my safety, bed, and board: I would lick your boots clean.' Brando announced.

'That won't be necessary.' H.P said.

'I'm sure you'll find ways to keep yourselves occupied over the next few days of this voluntary house arrest.' Father John said.

'I have many debts to repay.' Brando replied.

'Despite the disruption,' Sister Bridgette said, hoity-toity and very much perturbed, 'it will become life as per usual regardless.'

'Of course.' H.P said.

The elders of the clergy dismissed themselves thereafter. The moment they seemed out of earshot, Brando released a great sigh. He clung to the wall and acted dramatically. This was the persona that H.P had been waiting for.

'I would rather puncture my own eyes with cactus needles than do any of those pompous fools even the tiniest favour.' he announced. 'I'm a guest! I should be treated as such; the status of whether or not I'm a murderer should have no bearing on that.'

H.P could not bring herself to say anything in reply to that. Instead, she retreated back into her room and collected Brando's clothes. They were still a little bit damp but overall, they would be fine to wear. She saw it as little difference to putting clothes back on after coming from a swim or shower.

'Here.' she said. 'Now, you don't have to parade around in your bed sheets.'

'You've done a wonderful job, Sister.' Brando replied as he accepted his clothes from H.P.

He smiled. 'But,' he said pointedly, 'you must admit, I make it look like tasteful.'

'No, you really don't.' H.P said.

Brando gasped in jest but he nudged the door closed with his foot. He then began to put on his clothes. H.P knelt down by her bed and like a child, almost, she began to recite her morning prayers. Without thinking to, Brando followed along her mutterings. Was he purposefully speaking loud enough for him to echo or was it a coincidence?

Neither of them were sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Flirtations of Temptation**

 **Chapter 2**

 **:**

Soon, Brando was dressed and H.P had finished her prayers. Together, in their own way, they were ready to face the day; no matter what it brought. Brando was content to follow H.P around at her heel. He scuttled after her, almost like a curious lizard in the wake of a marching child. H.P did her best to maintain some semblance of normalcy despite the intrusion upon her.

With him on her heel, H.P wandered the halls and wounded up at the doorframe which framed the kitchen. H.P murmured to herself so that Brando could catch what their duties were.

'So, let's see… today is Monday, the Monday chores for me would be cleaning the kitchen and so the other Sisters are free to prepare our meals. Tomorrow, they will clean so I… we, may prepare our food.'

'Fabulous.' Brando agreed. 'I'll just watch, I don't want to be in your way.'

H.P turned around. Brando placed his arm on the doorframe. He tried to appear larger, cockier than he were but failed given that there was quite the height difference between them; a whole head. H.P frowned and pinched his ear, like a child but she supposed that being older than him, he was.

'No, you are going to stay here, you will abide by our rooms. Guest or not. Do not complain. It is simple work, Brando.' H.P said.

Brando frowned. He straightened himself and glared at H.P.

'I am a man who does as he pleases. Plebeian tasks are beneath me.' Brando's voice was threateningly low.

'You do not intimidate me, Brando. So long as you are beneath the roof of our Almighty Father, you must behave as such. I do not know from where you have come but basic decency ought to be expected of you regardless. If I say you clean, you clean.' H.P replied. Her voice was flat, neutral.

Brando grinned. His lips peeled back and his teeth seemed unnaturally sharp. His grin seemed unnaturally large as well; extending past where it should have but with a blink, the illusion of such menace disappeared. H.P's heart wavered as a result. She was losing faith in her own senses now. But she would maintain grace and poise regardless. She would bend Brando to her bidding.

'Brando.' she began, her tongue as pointed towards him as thought it were a knife to his neck.

'Diego.' he said, interrupting her.

'Excuse me?' H.P replied, aghast.

'Or Dio. I don't like this "Brando" business. It's not my name after all. Don't you get sick of it… Felicity?' he rambled.

H.P tensed up. How had they even deviated this far from their original conversation?

Worse yet, he wasn't wrong. He was very close to the vicinity of being "correct" even. Secretly, she did loathe the secrecy of names and vows. She missed being… H.P. Just… H.P. The name "Felicity" weighed to heavy on her back some days. Most days. Today.

'Oh? Strike a nerve, did I?' Brando impishly inquired.

'Yes. You did.' H.P replied.

'Fascinating.'

H.P's hands clenched together by her side. She clenched them together so hard, it felt as though her palm and her fingers may fuse. She licked her lips.

'Now, Diego,' she spoke tersely, 'will you please assist me with the cleaning? After that, you will be free to do as you please… so long as it isn't illegal and is in my presence. Many hands lighten the load and the kitchen is already quite clean from yesterday. It won't be that difficult, so stop being a child and help me.'

Diego smiled a normal smile. 'I would be delighted, Felicity.'

There was a flicker of his tongue and the words were spoken with such venom that H.P was reviled at the sound of her own name. She detested it but she could not voice it. Instead, she huffed and began to show Diego around the kitchen. What was theirs, was his or so she reasoned. That was the policy of fairness, supposedly.

Diego took an unusual interest in where the knives and the like were kept.

H.P was surprised that once forced, Diego could be a hard worker. He was also a quiet one. He made no chit-chat or japes as he worked. She had been expecting to do the most work between them but it split quite evenly. It was even possible that he had done more work. What he cleaned, seemed to be left in perfect condition. Dulled knives and forks shone after being cleaned by him. It was odd.

He was an odd person.

After the clunk of the last bits of cutlery being put away and the cleaning supplies returned to the closet adjacent, H.P spoke up.

'I'll give you a hint.'

'A hint towards what?' Diego asked as he cast aside a dishcloth in the sink, not caring where it landed.

'This morning.' H.P said awkwardly. 'And even now. You were curious, remember? About my real name. I'll give you a hint.'

'Do tell.' Diego encouraged her.

'The hint is "H.P".'

'That's all? You're initials, presumably?'

'Perhaps, if you behave, by the end of the week and when your charges are cleared, I might give you another hint. Or, perhaps, the whole of it. So long as you swear you never tell a soul.'

'I swear on my eyeball, I would never tell a soul.' Diego promised.

Most people, would cross themselves from their forehead to mid-way down their chest and then over their shoulders. Diego was not like most people. Instead, he created four points over his left eye.

He had such enchanting eyes, H.P would admit to that. His pupils were thin, black slits and the irises themselves were a gorgeous blue. Dark, deep, and swirling but right now, they seemed to pale and become electric. Cyan. He smiled. He had noticed her staring. H.P. averted her gaze.

'I try to think the best of people,' she lied, 'but I have strong doubts that you will have appeased me by then to earn such knowledge.'

'Well, now, that I have something truly interesting to gain from behaving myself, I truly do swear to it. You fascinate me… H.P. I have a strong resentment of humanity but you… you I do not detest as much as others.'

'That's not a very virtuous viewpoint to hold.' H.P said. 'But it is, strangely enough, one that I can appreciate.'

Diego did not add anything onto that train of thought. Nothing except a tap of his lower lip with his hands. Hands that were free of imperfections; no pruned fingertips or other harshness to mar the smoothness of them. How peculiar. Earlier H.P had noted that his hands were quite scaly. Another instance in which her eyes were lying to her?

'Well, do we have free time or not?' Diego asked.

H.P hoped that she hadn't been spacing out.

'Yes, we have free time. But not much, lunch will start soon then we will have to do the dishes but afterwards, we are free until dinner, until we have to do the dishes once more.' H.P. murmured.

'How quaint.' Diego said.

Before they could continue conversing, the sound of footsteps over stony floors entered the air. They looked up from where they were talking by the counter and towards the doorframe with no door. Two of the elderly Sisters had filed into the room. They bore terse expressions which implied no trust - of both Diego and H.P.

'Thank you, Sister Felicity and Mr. Brando.' Sister Agatha said.

'The kitchen… it looks brand new.' gasped Sister Bridgette.

'It is thanks to Di- Mr Brando's hard work. He is sincere in his word when he says he wants to show us gratitude for giving him asylum until he is cleared as being a murder suspect in his father's death.' H.P said.

'Yes, exactly.' Diego piped up.

'I'm glad. Sloth is a sin after all.' Sister Agatha said.

'We're probably going to take a little longer than usual. Old bones and all - plus, we have an extra mouth to feed, how unusual.' Sister Bridgette chattered.

'We don't desire to overcrowd you. We shall be in the parlour, if you need us, you may collect us from there.' H.P said. 'Now if you excuse us.'

'You are excused.' Sister Agatha said.

Diego noted that the atmosphere between H.P and her mentor sisters was stiff and rugged. They didn't seem to like each other. He wondered if there was reason for it, or better yet, good reason for. It would appear that he was getting attached to a very remarkable woman.

H.P led Diego to the parlour. It was towards the front of the convent but away from the attached Church. It was quiet. Austere and very brown. The chairs had no pillows and the tables had no doilies. A vase of wilting flowers sat upon one of the small tables present. A bare bookshelf hovered towards the doorframe with no door and opposite it, was a window. It bore no gregarious depictions of religious events so he could see through to the drowned garden.

Diego laid down upon one of the chairs as though it were a lounge. He was an extravagant man. H.P. sat down next to him and the chair she chose, creaked. He smiled, hummed, and tilted his head so his greasy hair fell to one side of his face.

'What do you normally do for fun around here?' he asked.

'Read.' H.P replied. 'Say my prayers, perhaps instruct a children's liturgy if there is interest. It depends.'

'None of is exactly what I would call… appealing.' Diego replied.

'How do you idle time then?'

'I devote most my time to the study of my craft. But, from merely scanning that pathetic bookshelf, I can see that there are no books that would interest me.'

'What's your craft?'

'Horse riding.'

'Truly?'

'Truly.' Diego paused. 'Why, do I not look the type?'

'Well, I suppose you are small enough. I just… didn't think you were the type to have respect for animals, I suppose I shall put it.'

Diego could tell by H.P's tone of voice that she meant no harm by her comment. Nevertheless a cruel smile split over Diego's dry lips. His teeth were bared and a shiver ran down H.P.'s spine.

'I have more respect for animals than I do for my fellow mankind.'

H.P was not, in whole, surprised by Diego's retort. It still made her feel unsettled though; her skin prickled, bubbled, and she had to shift how she sat upon her chair.

'I have an idea.' Diego said, his voice lightened and he proceeded to abruptly change the topic of conversation. 'Why don't we play two truths and a lie. We ought to get to know each other, don't think? Perhaps fun facts on the side. After all, we're going to spend a lot of time together this week, we may as well try and get along… find out what we have… in common.'

'I don't disagree but I don't believe that is the best game to play with a holy woman. Lying is a sin after all.'

'But I'm giving you permission to lie to you, besides… don't you need something to talk about with Padre at your next confession? As a nun, you ought to be the paragon of goodness yet you go to confession regularly which arises an interesting idea, does it not? Either you talk about nothing or you talk about something. Which is it, my dearest Sister Felicity?'

H.P straightened up and glared down Diego. 'I have told you before, that is business between myself and God. Father John is merely the middle man. It is not an affair you need to concern yourself with.'

Diego harrumphed. He didn't seem to care at all so H.P had reason to believe that she ought to expect further prying. Diego grew restless. He sprawled out and kicked up his feet. He smiled, almost airy.

'How about I start?' Diego suggested. There was a brightness in his eyes which seemed to be vile, at least in H.P's opinion. He continued despite her protest. 'I have been married, my favourite type of bird is the pigeon, and I enjoy steak sandwiches.'

H.P gazed into his eyes; trying to decipher which was the lie among the three. The first two seemed questionable but the third seemed the likeliest true. After all, steak sandwiches were a popular snack at the races and, assuming he wasn't lying about being a professional jockey, then that would make sense.

He had mentioned lovers earlier. He was young too; younger than her. It seemed extraordinarily unlikely a stud like him would have tied the knot so early and H.P was ready to assume, or believe, that Diego had likely divorced by now. A sin, by the way.

Then there was his comment about pigeons. Why pigeons? Hot Pants couldn't think of a thing to connect Diego and pigeons. So, she decided, that had to be the lie. She wet her lips then spoke.

'I believe,' she began, 'that the lie would be the pigeons.'

'In-co-rrect.' Diego teased her. He waggled his finger at H.P's face. 'None of them were lies. I thought I would take pity on the fact that you, a holy woman, cannot lie. So, instead, I named three facts about myself.'

'Oh? Then I believe some elaborations are necessary.' H.P taunted.

'How does one explain why something as arbitrary as "favourite species of bird" or "favourite type of food"? But, if you really must know, I am misanthropic at heart. I believe that pigeons have a more functioning society than that of humans. And I just truly enjoy the sensation of tearing apart firm, red meat with my teeth.' Diego replied. 'As for the anecdote about my love life… I am a widower. My wife passed away early last year. A shame but, she was getting old. It was… natural causes.'

H.P's palms sweated. Her fingers curled in and her nails pierced into her palm, but she felt no pain. She did not know why but she became very nervous at the hearing of Diego's wife. And the fact that he had to specify "natural causes" made her uneasy. Was it possible that Diego was no stranger to be suspected of murder?

'Now, come, dear Sister Felicity. I believe it is your turn to the play the game.' Diego said, invitingly.

H.P replied with a huff, 'Unlike you, I will respect the rules of the game. I shall present you with two truths and a lie, just as the game calls for.'

'I look forward to this.' Diego smiled a smile razor sharp.

He was also eager. Of course, he was eager. He had finally enticed the nun into sinning; the true objective to his little game.

As she gathered her thoughts, H.P struggled. She felt something slow and heavy push through her veins. She didn't know what she could and couldn't share with him. She was uncertain as to what her mouth and her heart would allow her to say. Yet, she presented her facts and her fiction regardless.

'My mother's maiden name was "Brown", my father's name is James, and as a little girl, I used to play with the neighbour's horse which was named "Gets Up".' H.P replied.

She held onto the hem of her dress. Bile rose to the back of her mouth. She felt as though her lie had clogged her lungs. She felt as though she couldn't breathe; as though she were choking but she tried to ignore it. She tried to overpower it with her will to remain neutral and impartial. So, her back straightened and her eyes watered as she tried not to drown in her words. Her simple, little lie.

Diego scratched his chin and he mused over what H.P had said. She waited pointedly to say something. Anything. That smile of his shrank.

'You were,' he began, 'incredulous when I said I was a professional jockey.'

'I was.' H.P confirmed.

'And you regard names in the highest order, so I find it suspicious that you would reveal to me your mother's maiden name and your father's name. However, they are common names.' Diego continued.

'Correct.' H.P replied.

'But,' he smirked, 'you have a tell; a little quirk which you cannot control that has allowed me to detect your lie.'

'And what might that be?' H.P inquired, almost facetiously.

'Your eyes widen, and your breaths become jumbled, you clutch onto your dress. There are too many to name and I saw them all.' Diego said as he licked his lips. 'You, my dear, are honest to a fault.'

'Or, perhaps, I've already told too many lies and I have no trickery left to spare.' H.P countered.

Diego smiled. It was more than apparent to H.P that he thought her to be fascinating. She's never held attention like this. People generally tend to be repulsed by her but he, he was attracted to her. Compelled by her, as though they were supposed to be together. Not necessarily romantically, but in a way that atoms are with other, likeable atoms.

'You never played with a neighbour's horse named Gets Up.' Diego said.

'You would be correct.' H.P replied.

She breathed a sigh of relief. No longer, did she feel as though air was no longer able to penetrate her mouth. She felt as though something thick and clumpy had been drained from her lungs. She was free from her telling lies.

'Gets Up was my family's horse. In my youth, he was my closest companion.' H.P continued, pointlessly so.

'Aw, how sweet.' Diego replied but he made a face in direct contradiction to the sentiment of his words.

There was a lull in conversation. It became apparent to them both that they were both extremely private parties. Fortunately, they heard footsteps in the hall and soon a face to match. Darling and docile Sister Josephine approached.

She held her hands and a weak smile. 'Lunch is ready.'

'Fabulous, I was feeling a touched famished anyway.' Diego said.

With his nose in the air, he got up and H.P joined him. Sister Josephine then led them through to the kitchen. Diego, ever the mockery of a gentleman, stepped ahead of them both once they reached the kitchen and got to the table first. He pulled up seats for both H.P and Sister Josephine and made sure to tuck them both in. As he sat himself down, across from H.P, Sister Josephine chuckled. She seemed unused to such flattering attention. H.P was wary as she was aware of the duality in his behaviour.

Soon, Father John joined them by sitting at the head of the table. The other Sisters, Bridgette and Agatha, placed the last of the bowl of soup on the table. Diego inspected it from where he sat, craning his neck. He looked displeased to say the least. It was meagre; a pauper's pathetic meal.

H.P threw him a glare and he sat up straight; hands together on the edge of the table. The remaining sisters sat down and there was a pause.

'Now, to say grace.' Sister Agatha said.

Diego watched, in disgust, as hands linked around the table. Sister Bridgette eyed him.

'You will be joining us, won't you, Mr Brando?' she asked, terse of voice.

'Er… Of course.'

He relented only after facing H.P's glare. He hesitantly spread his hands and Father John latched onto one and Sister Agatha.

There was another pause, and then they began their prayer. Diego mumbled in echo of the others at the table. They bowed their heads, closed their eyes, and opened their hearts to their God above, sincerely thanking Him for the meal. Their recital of the prayer was impeccable; each knew every line without flounder. Diego found no agreement in the sentiments but, his voice was his façade in this most and he would continue playing along dumbly to their wishes as their guest.

There was a pause. Diego's fumbled words came to a halt. Another pause.

'Amen.' said Father John.

'Amen.' everyone else replied; even Diego.

There was no conversation at the dinner table. It only took mere looks among these people to convey simple words. A look, a glance, a nod: it all had such diverse meaning. Everything from pass the salt and pepper to hollowed sentiments regarding the taste of the meal.

Diego detested it. It was bland and watery. It was a broth soup suitable only for dogs, and yet they ate regardless. If Diego did not know the value of starvation, he would have rejected it. Instead, he made sure to drink every last drop that was served into his commoner bowl.

H.P had been ready to intervene the moment Diego placed the spoon in his mouth. She had been certain he would hate it and yet, he had graciously eaten it. She still noted the twinges of outrage in his eyes whenever he swallowed but he swallowed regardless. He didn't complain. He didn't drop the façade, like she had been expecting.

Lunch was quiet. After all, no one spoke. Then, once the pot of soup was emptied, Sister Agatha smiled curtly and looked towards H.P. H.P was unsettled by the look in Sister Agatha's hazel brown eyes.

'Thank you for this meal.' she said. 'Now, it is Sister Felicity and Mr Brando's chore to wash-up. Would you prefer if we handed all our plates to you, or to Mr Brando?'

'To me, thank you. Mr Brando can take the pot over.' H.P replied.

'No, no,' Diego interjected, 'allow me. It would be unfair of me to allow Sister Felicity the brunt of work.'

'Well, we shall leave you to it.' Sister Bridgette said.

'Yes, thank you for your cooperation and hard work.' Father John added.

The elders of the room slowly got up. It was painful, watching their rickety bodies move but eventually, they all left. Retreated into their private quarters or returned to chores of their own. H.P sighed.

'There's no need.' she told Diego.

'Damn right.' he replied. 'Now, chop, chop.'

H.P huffed. 'You are helping me, whether you like it or not.' She couldn't believe he had already reverted to that bratty stubbornness again.

'I'm going to starve here, Felicity!' he moaned. 'Starve!'

'I can assure you, we will keep you well fed so long as you obey our rules.' H.P said.

Diego growled at her. He refused to stand up and instead, sank further into his wooden chair like a petulant child. H.P rolled her eyes and she got up. She collected the plates and cutlery. She glared at Diego.

'Brando.' she said.

'Ugh, fine.' he relented. 'Just promise me, the quality of the food will pick up.'

'We are poor.' H.P replied. 'We cannot afford good food.'

'Oh please.' Diego snorted. 'Compared to the life I led as a child, you are living the lap of luxury and if I could still eat delicious food, when sleeping in a manager like your little Lord Jesus, then surely I can eat good food here.'

'If you can bear it until this evening, it will be our turn to cook. When you have reign of the kitchen, you may feast as you please.'

Diego bore a snarly smile. 'Oh, I can assure you. I will feast very soon.'

He sounded positively bestial. H.P tried to ignore him, but it unsettled her, regardless. It resounded in her ears and sent chills down her spine.

'Here.' she said, near robotically. 'Fill the pot with water. Scrape out what's left.'

Diego obeyed her. He helped her out as he could. When he put his mind to it, he revealed a hidden talent for the domestic. He was wasted with his petulance and obstinance. Once more, they worked silently. Stepping around each other as they went about their business.

Scrub, scrub, wipe. Scrub, scrub, wipe. H.P would scrub down and Diego would wipe. They stood side by side; shoulders brushing against each other. It was a good system that helped them finish their task easily. Once more, what Diego had cleaned, was polished to a standard of newness.

Diego put away the last plate. He turned to H.P and smiled. He did not necessarily smile sweetly but this was a smile that offered pleasantry rather than evoke anything else, like the other smiles he had worn before.

'Well?' he asked.

'Yes. We are finished.' H.P confirmed.

'So, how should we spend the remainder of our afternoon? Until supper. My God.' Diego huffed. 'What a menial existence this is. Just existing and eating. I can't stand it.'

'Our way is not for everyone. We understand. I'm sure you will adjust. It's only five days, nearly four now.' H.P said. She paused, mused. 'The flowers in the parlour are wilted. Perhaps we could replace them. After last night's storm, I think we ought to check for damages to our garden, too.'

'Alright, show me the way.' Diego said.

He went to latch onto H.P's arm but she moved off without him. She hadn't even noticed that he had attempted to touch her. Unperturbed, he followed along behind her. He watched as she walked. She carried herself she as though she were an authority. It was odd. As he studied her movements, he did further thinking on her. He had been doing some thinking anyway about what "H.P" could possibly stand for and in this solemn establishment, there was plenty of time and space to think.

The back garden was drowned and not how Diego had expected. Unlike the rest of the convent, which was plain and austere, the garden showed life. Had it not rained as viciously as it had last night, this garden would have been vivid and bright. Flowers bloomed among shrubs. Mud congregated along stone slab paths. Tomatoes grew on a vine, overseeing plantations of potatoes and other vegetables. There was an apple tree resting along the furthest fence.

Diego wandered idly. H.P, however, did not stroll. She was purposefully checking the condition on the plants nestled in the garden. Diego admired; she examined. Still, it was peaceful. It was more entertaining than idling themselves in the parlour or cleaning the kitchen.

The backyard was somewhat large. It was large enough to contain both a functional vegetable patch, a garden, and Diego discovered, a gazebo. The gazebo was in a state of disrepair; cobwebs and cracks but it was nice. He wondered, briefly, why it was seemingly unused. It was in a good position, opposite the apple tree and tucked behind the roses and poinsettias. It would be a lovely place to enjoy reading and a spot of tea. A musing cut short when he noticed that a fat, white rat was scrabbling about.

He smirked. Perhaps, he wasn't going to starve today as well.

'Diego!' Hot Pants yelled, upon realising that he was in a different part of the backyard to him.

She looked around and, in the absence of her gaze, he managed to reappear behind her with a debonair smile. His somewhat white teeth, revealed from behind peeling lips, appeared to be stained scarlet.

'Hello.' he replied with a cough.

H.P glared. 'Frog in your throat?' she asked.

He laughed. 'No. A rat.'

'I'm quite certain the phrase is "frog in your throat".' H.P insisted.

'No, no. I'm quite certain it is… a rat.' Diego corrected her.

'Anyways.' H.P huffed. Unamused, she gave up on that particular thread of conversation. 'Stay with me. I know it's a small yard, but still.'

'I understand. Don't want me… escaping.' Diego replied, and his eyes flashed. 'Anyways, I think I've guessed your name.'

'Hm, you think so, do you?' she asked, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

'Yes.' Diego nodded. 'Yes, indeed, my dear Henrietta Poinsettia.'

If H.P were not a serious woman, she would have laughed.

'You would be incorrect, Mr…' her voice trailed off as she tried to pick a surname. Who was Dario? 'Mr, er, um…'

'How about you just wait until my father's obituary is published before you try and guess my father's surname? A surname I do not identify with.' Diego said.

'Your father mustn't frequent Church often,' H.P mused, 'or else, I would know of him better.'

'Yes, well, I'm surprised my father managed to live as long as he did without his wife: the maid and cook he didn't have to pay for.' Diego said, bitterly. He huffed. 'Well, if you are not Henriette Poinsettia, I must keep looking for names for you?'

'Or, you could wait for my obituary.' H.P joked in dry taste.

Diego chuckled. 'I won't.'

Inspired by being called "Henrietta Poinsettia", H.P collected poinsettias from the garden to replace the wilting roses in the parlour. Soon after, she and Diego returned to idling their time in the parlour. At least now, they had fresh flowers to admire in the otherwise dull room.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Though, Diego did take some offence to the five o'clock supper and the eight o'clock bedtime but, H.P wrangled him eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

**Flirtations of Temptation**

 **Chapter 3**

 **:**

The next morning came but not without hassle.

Monday night had been harder than H.P had expected. So much had happened between Sunday night and now. In the quiet comfort of her private room, she was left with time to contemplate what had happened. She was free of Diego's presence but not entirely. He penetrated her thoughts.

H.P was certain. She could feel it in her sludgy blood, Diego was like her: a murderer. She didn't know whom he had killed, but she was certain he had. There was the possibility he had murdered is late wife but H.P had no basis for such a theory. She didn't know the woman. She also didn't know the man Diego had been spurned from. She had more intuition towards such violence than anything else. She was certain that Diego was the one who had slain his father Dario even though, from what she had heard, it seemed an impossible task for a human.

Diego had described, in detail, how his father had died. He had claimed that this was information that he had gotten from Constable Kelly but H.P knew better. The relish in his voice, the sparkle in his eye: this was information that had directly been taken from the killer's knowledge.

The blood. The way it stained the walls. The gashes: the way it was like claws had ripped through Dario's body. The way he had been shredded at his killer's hands. It was Diego. There was not a scant trace of doubt in H.P's mind but she didn't know how he had done it. He did not mention the contraptions of mankind once. Yes, he had interest in knives and the like but no, he had not once used such imagery in the chatter of his father's death. He chose animalistic words: biting, scratching, clawing. The man had been gored; not butchered.

Dario was not killed by a serrated weapon or the like. He was most certainly torn with fangs and claws.

As H.P tried to close her eyes, she felt as though she could see the sheen of bloodshed in Diego. She recalled the moment in the garden. It was not a frog in his throat but a rat. There had been red on his otherwise white teeth. How peculiar.

Eventually, H.P relented. She fell asleep, but it was an uneasy sleep. The echoes of Sunday's nightmares remained and with the story of the horrors inflicted upon Dario also did remain her mind. Still, it was a night of blackness which was preferable over a night of colours.

In the morning, even before the dawn, H.P was not the first arise. Diego had woken first. She had wandered into the kitchen, thirsting for a glass of water and he had been waiting.

He smiled. He threw one leg over the other and waited. He tilted his head. His eyes followed H.P as she navigated the cluttered kitchen.

'Is something the matter?' she asked, weary.

Diego shook his head. He pushed his sleeve across his mouth. It was a shame he only had the one set. He had rejected all offers of spares from H.P, and even Father John.

H.P removed a jug of water from the cooler and she stumbled for the drawers. Her foot hit something on the floor. Diego sat next to the sink. His eyes shone like the brightest stars in the sky. H.P had hit something soft and she bolted upright. She locked eyes with Diego's. Memories hit back.

She swallowed. She looked down.

'Is something that matter, my dear Sister Felicity?' he asked, cool as ice.

'Yes. Yes, there is.' H.P replied, thoroughly chilled.

'Hm, and what's that?' Diego asked.

H.P swallowed. Was… was she imagining it?

So, she checked again. And she confirmed it.

A dead cow laid on the tiled floor between them. It had been ravaged something terrible. Its guts spilled out. It had been chewed and gnawed on. The best cuts of its flesh, had been eaten.

Diego smiled. 'Don't worry. I understand the way of this place.' He said.

'I'm glad.' H.P replied weakly.

'I'll clean up after myself. Why don't you go back to bed? No one else is up yet and you didn't stir until late yesterday. Relax.' Diego offered her.

'Al-Alright.'

She placed the jug back where it belonged. She tightly gripped onto her glass and she removed herself from the kitchen.

'Also, H.P,' Diego piped up, 'that is a lovely shade of pink you wear your hair.'

She ignored that comment. That was a taunt, an impossible comment. Her hair was auburn. It had and always will be auburn.

Once she had returned to her room, she didn't feel safer. H.P considered herself thoroughly harrowed.

Later, she convinced herself that it was a dream. It had to have been a dream. After all, she was able to put herself back to sleep and she slept for, perhaps, another two hours and this time, she was the last to awake.

H.P got up and dressed herself. She could hear her fellow sisters fussing about outside her room. It was time for breakfast. H.P left her room.

And, when she left her room, she passed a glass of cooled water. Condensation lingered on it. It was fresh and untouched.

It had not been a dream, even though the kitchen would imply otherwise. Once more, Diego was waiting for her but this time, he didn't sit on the counter but rather a chair at the dining table. He possessed two bowls of yogurt and something else.

'I made you breakfast, sleepyhead.' he told her fondly.

H.P sat down hesitantly. She was forced to sit with her back towards the centre of the kitchen because of how Diego had placed himself and their bowls.

'I poured out some yogurt, found some honey and fresh fruit. I thought you would like it.' He said then paused. 'But, you don't seem like the type to have a sweet tooth.'

'I prefer it over unflavoured porridge.' H.P replied in a quiet voice.

Her nose wrinkled as she smelt the odour of unflavoured porridge.

'Yes, I too prefer this over unflavoured porridge.' Diego agreed. 'So, how did you sleep last night? You are quite right about the guest quarters being draughty. I thought I was going to freeze my privates off last night but, fortunately, a little bit of light exercise warmed me right. And, tired me out. Though, living here is an already sleepy existence, and yet? Not enough to put me to bed at eight o'clock.'

'It takes some getting used to, admittedly.' H.P replied.

Her voice grew ever smaller in this conversation. Diego allowed her a little space. She ate in small spoonsful to match this small voice. Diego, however, was ravenous. With no one sitting across from him, his inability to show restraint was revealed. He shovelled food into his mouth.

He even licked the bowl. H.P couldn't help but note what an unusual tongue he possessed. If she didn't know any better, she would say it was strangely nimble and strangely long. Forked, too. However, he brought the bowl to his mouth, so it was hard to tell.

Diego placed the bowl on the table. It was completely clean. He propped up his face with his hand and he watched as H.P ate. She had barely dug even the slightest dent in her dense yogurt.

'Tell me, when you sleep… do you dream?' he asked.

Diego possessed a rugged voice. H.P paused. Flashes of memories – swipes of red and even noises, crying – surfaced across her eyes as she blinked very, very slowly. She stared into her bowl. She became acutely aware of the bags under her eyes.

She thought not only of her past, but of today. She thought of the dream – the memory – of meeting Diego this morning, in the kitchen. She thought of the ravaged and gored dairy cow. She thought of its pathetic, mournful brown eyes and the way Diego's eyes had gleamed. He truly did have such lovely eyes embedded in that head of his.

'…Yes.' H.P confessed.

'It must be nice. When I sleep, I merely sleep.' Diego said. 'Okay, now tell me this, do you have a favourite colour?'

Pink.

Pink was the first colour upon such a prompt that came to H.P's mind.

'No.' she lied, resolutely. She was aware of her tics and the sensation of her throat becoming clogged with thickening flesh, but she ignored it.

She hoped that Diego would too, but he scrutinised her. A deviant smile flickering across his lips as he analysed her. However, thankfully, he dropped it. He continued with whatever this game was.

'Okay, a third question, a final question: is your name Heather Peterson?' he asked with a playful smile, as though some sort of trickery had laced his voice.

H.P heard no such trickery though.

'No.' she said. Once more, resolute but this time, it was not a lie. And, having not been a lie, it released her from the sludgy grip of deceit.

'Darn, I thought for sure you were a Heather. I was I at least close?' he asked.

'No.' H.P replied, a third time much like the biblical Peter.

A curt smile quirked across her lips. H.P suppressed it and continued her breakfast. She had a feeling that today was going to be harder than yesterday. Mostly, because she could feel herself grow attached to the annoyance that was Diego. From that, she could assume tomorrow would be worse and the rest of the week unbearable until fate has them part by Friday evening, or Saturday morning.

She and Diego later spent part of the morning idling in the parlour. They were, once more, engaged in useless chatter. They spent the second half of the morning in the kitchen once more. It would appear the kitchen was where H.P ought to be anchored today but it still had her uneasy.

She had no explanation for this morning outside of a dream. And, like many things she wished to be a dream, it could have been real.

Diego was far more eager about food preparation than he was about cleaning. H.P supposed it could be because Diego is a frivolous person and food can be frivolous. But, this was a place of fasting and little luxury.

Diego smiled at H.P, 'So,' he began, smarmy, 'what are you thinking for lunch?'

'Sandwiches.' H.P replied.

'What sort of sandwiches?' Diego asked.

He asked in a tone which suggested that he was hoping for the best. H.P already felt bad that she had to dash such hope.

'Whatever cold meats we have available. I believe we have tomatoes and cucumbers, so we ought to eat those too whilst they're fresh. We'll save the onions for tonight; I'm thinking stew tonight.' H.P replied.

'Boring.' Diego said. 'But, I'll help anyway because I hate a nagging woman.'

He crossed his arms. Such a reply intrigued H.P.

'Then why were you so obstinate yesterday?' she asked.

'Because, I prefer preparing my own meals; cleaning is completely different.' Diego said. He glanced around, and he picked up some fruit from the fruit bowl on the counter. 'Like comparing apples… and oranges.'

'Put those down lest you drop them and bruise them.' H.P roused. 'Now, stop fooling around. Could you please cut and butter the bread? I'll handle the meat.'

'Good idea. I tend to pick apart food as I prepare it.' Diego said.

'Somehow, I'm not surprised.' H.P said.

The two parted and began the chore H.P had selected for them. Diego had a penchant for cutting thickly and H.P decided not to scold him for it. She preferred thick cut bread as well and perhaps indulgence mightn't go amiss occasionally. If the sisters attack them for waste, so be it. It will have been worth it.

'You know, Diego,' H.P said, making conversation as she sliced tomatoes, 'the butter we use comes from a dairy farm nearby.'

'Oh, I can tell. Lovely place. Low security.' Diego chattered back.

'How would you know…?' H.P replied.

Diego paused, mused on if he wanted to tell the truth or tell a lie. H.P could sense such appraisal of his options in his silence. He continued and H.P did not know which he had selected.

'Old stories from my mother. She used to work there, and she would often tell me that the new farm where she worked, made her feel a lot safer because there were more locks on the barns than back at her old job.'

Diego spoke quietly. Gently. It didn't suit him. It also made H.P realise something. Diego had a genuine love and respect for his mother. That didn't suit him either. After all, he had talked her ear off at various points yesterday about how much hatred for humanity dwelt in his heart.

Perhaps he thought his mother ascendant. Or, perhaps, he was not as misanthropic as he would like to present himself. Either solution to the conundrum didn't suit him either. Diego Brando was a conundrum.

He pushed the plates with bread and butter closer to H.P. 'Anything else I can do to help?'

'You could set the table.' H.P suggested as she began to delicately place slices of tomato on the bread.

Diego pulled open a drawer. He inspected the knife.

'We clean better than those old coots.' He said.

'Hush, Diego. Pride is a sin.' H.P said.

Diego plucked leftover ham from H.P's reserves. He smirked.

'As is gluttony.' H.P added.

'I'm making a game of this, do you realise?' he asked. 'Is it possible for me to breach all seven deadly sins in one day?'

H.P was slightly amused. 'I am certain that if anyone could do it, it would be you.'

'Why Sister Felicity!' he exclaimed. 'I am flattered you think so highly of me.'

'Oh, shut up.' H.P muttered.

'Still,' Diego said as he drew out more cutlery from the drawer, 'that is two down… five to go.'

He huffed and turned around with a swish of his tail.

Tail?

H.P's eyes widened. She had thought she had felt the brush of moving air. She had thought she had seen a sweeping flash of blue and yellow, that was long and of unusual texture. But she had been incorrect. She rubbed her eyes. She had to have been daydreaming. Surely, she had been daydreaming but nonetheless, she snuck a glance at Diego.

One that he did detect. He turned around again. He held his hands in front of him. His fingers seemed to come to a sculpted point, as if he possessed talons.

'Is something the matter?' he asked.

'N-No, just a trick of light.' H.P hesitated.

'My dear Sister, you ought to take more confidence in your eyes. And what lovely eyes they are. After all, sometimes, truth can be stranger than fiction.' Diego flirted.

'I would know.' H.P replied, in feeble defence of herself. 'I have seen the truth before and it did not make sense.'

'You truly do fascinate me.' Diego said.

H.P tried not blush, but she had never encountered treatment like this before. She had been in holy education for most of her youth so, she had never been exposed to the lurid lust others of her age would be aware of. It was very flustering and very embarrassing; it even made her glad to have sworn it off in the name of virginity, purity, and innocence. Though, unfortunately, it continued to cement an unusual thing in her mind: she would miss Diego when he was gone, despite his transgressions against her – their? – God.

After all, thou shalt not kill.

And thou shalt not lie and thou shalt not use one's God's name in vain and thou shalt not worship false idols… but, H.P paused as her musings in listing Diego's sins came to a scrambling halt: one shalt honour thy parents. Diego may have killed his father, but his mother was placed among the angels in his eyes, it would appear.

Soon enough, H.P was placing plates among the cutlery with Diego. And soon enough, the others of the convent had appeared at the dining table. And soon enough, they were seated like yesterday: Father John and Sister Josephine at the heads, Diego and H.P across from each other, and Sisters Agatha and Bridgette across from each other as well. And soon enough, they were all linking hands in grace – once more, to Diego's displeasure and mumbled and fumbled efforts to join the perfect recital of their thanks. And, soon enough, there was silence as they ate.

What a seamless routine it was. Every minute had a place and every hour had to be obeyed. Was it always so impeccably… dull?

H.P couldn't tell. She was far too used to peace. She had been domesticated, so to speak. Trained to love peace when she was attuned to chaos. She had now long forgotten the thrum of the unknown. Diego was chaos. He was slowly ruining everything, and he knew it.

Fortunately, because he was chaos in an otherwise suffocating world, it meant that after lunch, H.P was delivered reprieve. Being a fine day, they wandered out of the parlour and into the garden. Diego was enamoured with that gazebo.

He had a dreamy look in his eye as he stared out from beneath its roof. He watched, perhaps counted, the clouds as they passed. H.P saw no hobby in what he did, but she didn't find enough interest in the book she had brought either to open it. Diego was far more interesting, even when seemingly bored himself.

'It's going to rain tomorrow tonight.' he said.

'How can you tell? Is the reading of clouds one of your crafts too?' H.P inquired, sitting up a little straighter.

'Not entirely.' Diego replied. 'I pick up a thing or two from those who do know. I'm just blessed, you know? A quick learner with a deep intuition. I can feel it in the air. It will rain tomorrow tonight. Mark. My. Words.'

H.P sighed. 'Consider them marked, if it so pleases you.'

Since the conversation appeared to have died, H.P went to open her book. Of course, that was the moment in which a smarmy smile streaked across Diego's sharp, scaly face.

'We ought to play a game of some sort.' he suggested, blithe as a child.

'What do you suggest?' H.P asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sometimes, it was better to go along with. Indulge him. It was better than sitting in silence, reading or discussing strange topics which churned all sorts of emotions and anxieties better left ignored inside of H.P's body.

Diego paused. 'Never have I ever.'

'What's that?' H.P asked.

Diego turned around to her and he lifted his hand. 'The idea is to not get out. We will state things we've never done however, if I say something you have done, you have to put a finger down. You get a lifeline of five. Does that sound reasonable? It's a very truthful game. An honesty system, really.'

There was an ill glimmer in Diego's eyes. It unnerved H.P but she was allured by the idea of an honesty system. She relented.

'It does sound reasonable.' she agreed.

'Five chances.' Diego reminded her.

'Five chances.' H.P confirmed.

'I will begin.' Diego said. 'Never have I ever worn a nun's habit.'

One digit of H.P's went down.

'Never have I ever worn jockey silks.'

One digit of Diego's went down.

'Never have I ever had sex.'

Diego cocked a grand smile with that as he lowered his next finger. H.P rolled her eyes. She was glad that he did not turn it into some sort of smarmy flirt.

'Never have I ever taken a vow of chastity.'

Ah, revenge. Of course. H.P lowered her next finger.

'Never have I ever stolen something.'

Diego lowered his finger. He had two remaining.

'Never have I ever been to Italy.'

H.P lowered her finger. Now, she had two remaining also. It would appear, unless someone could break the chain, it would be her win simply because of how the conversation had looped around.

'Never have I ever been confirmed under the name of Saint Anthony of Padua.'

Diego kept his pinkie finger remaining; the last of his lifeline as he had called. It smiled. Not quietly serenely but it wasn't evil either. It was… unsettling to him almost placid.

'Never have I ever been confirmed under the name Saint Felicity.'

Now, their hands were mirrored. Pinkies out.

'Never have I ever been raised on a farm.' H.P said.

Diego's pinkie finger curled inwards against his palm. He smiled.

'Congratulations. You won.' Diego said.

H.P couldn't tell if he was being malicious or not. She was used to hear him slather his voice with malice so that it dripped out of his mouth, as viscous as honey. In this situation, it would be natural for him use such malignant intent in his voice but there was no such malevolent presence with him.

'Thank you.' H.P replied, in good gesture.

Victory felt boring but the idea that it could have been a battle of wits, thrilled her. It was more fun than a crossword puzzle, but it wasn't as satisfying in its mundane completion.

Diego glanced at the clock. 'Oh, my!' he exclaimed in farce of a gasp. 'When did it become so late?'

H.P followed his gaze. She hummed. 'I suppose so. It is by the standards of this convent. I know your being rude, by the way.'

'I'm glad. That's half the joke.' Diego teased.

'Then, I hope the other half of the joke is that you want to help prepare dinner.' H.P quipped.

'I would love that.' Diego replied in the loathsome voice H.P expected.

Nonetheless, he got up when she got up, and unprompted too. He followed in tow when H.P walked through to the kitchen.

Though she thought she had suppressed it, quelled her fears of it, but once more upon leaving the hallway, she was stricken with a worry. With night approaching, it felt as though all today, not just this morning, had been a dream: from waking up to eating yogurt for breakfast to even just a moment ago, playing that silly and vapid game with Diego. It concerned H.P dearly for she could visualise it without haze: the cow, Diego, and the gruesome scene they shared. What if it had been real?

She glanced at Diego. He moved around her and strode on through. He dug his hands through the basket with the onions. He half-twisted around; an onion in each hand.

'How many will we be needing?'

'I'm not sure yet.'

H.P was answering a question different to what Diego had asked. Fortunately, the hypothetical answers had much overlap and were able to criss-cross without suspicion.

'Well I have two hands and one in each hand. For now, that will be enough.' Diego decided on H.P's behalf.

She sighed, and she got out a cookbook. Diego peeked over her shoulder, hovering close enough for her to hear the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breaths. She flicked through the book and refreshed herself on the recipe. She was familiar with it but, she was suddenly feeling a bit dazed. Out of energy. Sluggish.

Moreover, she had decided, part way through her perusal of recipes, that she didn't want to make stew. She wanted to make stroganoff. Or maybe it was the other way around? What had she told Diego as they were making sandwiches for lunch? She could not recall.

It was easy. Diego was helpful. He wasn't necessary pliant, but he took instructions somewhat seriously which was an improvement. Still, it didn't feel like H.P was doing much. She felt as though she was watching herself make these actions and that she wasn't truly in charge of herself, much less Diego.

And it all culminated when it was beginning to get close to dinner time. They were almost done. Then, as H.P was moving the pot, boiling and bubbling and filled with rice, off the heat and onto the counter where it could be shared, when she dropped it.

She didn't scream. Not initially anyway. But that was what terrified Diego.

The water and rice flooded the tiling of the kitchen. It lapped at the leather Diego wore. He turned around and shuddered when he heard the thunk of the pot. He was pale as a ghost.

'A-Are you okay?' he asked.

He tentatively came closer to H.P. She turned examined her hands, idly. She saw her flesh bubble and boil, but it did not behave what flesh dunked in boiling water would like. Though, her flesh rarely did behave as flesh ought to for the most of time. Still, the burns were what caused her eyes to widen and her mouth to bellow out in pain.

'It's okay, it's okay.' Diego tried to calm H.P but her skin crawled. Her shoulders reeled.

He held her hands gently. He knelt down and placed his knee in the puddle of hot water. He flinched slightly, but he tried to remain as gentleman-like as possible, and not in farce either. He seemed to be exuding genuine chivalry for once. Even her state of unreal terror, H.P could recognise that Diego was trying his best to remain calm for her behalf.

'It's okay.' he said, gritting his teeth.

He kissed her palm. His lips were cold; unnaturally so. He kissed the inner of her hand. Diego suckled her finger tips and the blisters that formed. He was gentle. It was strange. He was not the type of man to be gentle. It was oddly romantic. But then, his tongue slipped out throughout his affections. He ran it along her burns and he tried to soothe them best he could but there was little else he could do. But, it helped even though it seemed minute. When he had first taken her hands upon his, she was shaking violently but she seemed still.

Diego seemed to have an unnatural tongue. It was long and slippery. But it didn't scare H.P, even though she knew it should. It was of wrong proportions and lengths. It wasn't human, but it didn't scare her.

He rose up. He smiled a twisted smile; one twisted by pain and not personality.

'Here, allow me to properly clean your wounds.' he said.

Like the fooled lamb led to slaughter, H.P allowed herself to be led to the sink by Diego. He flushed her wounds with room temperature water. He looked around.

'Where do you keep a first aide kit?' he asked.

H.P enjoyed the concern in his voice. It was so strange and foreign. It didn't suit him, but she liked it nonetheless.

'In the cabinet above the refrigerator.' she said.

H.P kept her hands under the water whilst Diego fussed about on the other side of the kitchen. Though she knew she shouldn't, she did regardless: she poked and prodded her blisters. She popped them, and putrid pus leaked. However, she was able to smooth out the skin and the chunks of flesh brought to boil because of this accident.

Diego returned to her side with the kit. He then had her sit down on a chair at the dining room. Diego fetched a pitcher of water and he helped H.P drink it. Her fingers were tender, and she was ginger to handle anything. He didn't mind. H.P noted that he was strangely apt at helping people like this. He then helped her place a pill on her tongue then, he had her drink once more as he didn't want her to dry swallow the pain killer.

He pulled out another and sat across from her; as close as he could get. The fabric of her long outfit interfered slightly but still, his knees jutted in between H.P's. they leaned over each other as Diego bandaged her up. As he rolled and rolled and rolled the bandaging, he told a story.

'When I was five,' he began, very grave of voice, 'my mother sustained injuries like this too. Only hers… weren't an accident. There was an incident on the farm she worked at. See, when my mother saved me from the floods, she was later saved by a farmhand. In years to come, the married farmhand developed unrequited feelings for my mother, his worker. To punish her, he made it so that my mother and I had nothing to eat or drink from. So, until we could replace our eating utensils, my mother would cup her hands and I would have to eat my meal from her hands. Doing this repeatedly – for over a month – she sustained very grave burns. Wounds which were further aggravated by the fact she continued her work regardless. She died before I turned six.'

'Diego…' H.P gasped. 'I'm so sorry. I had no idea.'

Diego finished bandaging up H.P. He caressed the side of her face. His thumb slipped down her cheek and he tucked a bright pink curl of hair inside of her habit once more. He smiled mournfully.

'My mother is my heroine, my guardian angel. Everything she did, she did for me. If there was ever a woman who deserved to become a saint, it would be her, dear Sister Felicity.' Diego said.

'And what would be such a brave and saintly woman's name, if you don't mind me asking?' H.P inquired. 'After all, for such a woman to be canonised, we would need her name and her miracles.'

Diego's mouth quirked. 'I will tell you some other time, perhaps.'

'Perhaps.' H.P replied, mutedly.

Diego kissed H.P's bandaged knuckles. 'Like my mother would say to me, after I scrapped my knees, I hope you feel better soon.'

He lifted his mouth off of H.P's hand and he gazed into his eyes. The electric blue turned to a sorrowful cyan. H.P licked her lips. Seeing Diego so vulnerable was so rare, thus, she was unable to hold such a pitiful gaze. It scared her because of how intimate it was.

Diego left his chair first. He turned his back to H.P. He straightened up and though she was trying to act tough, H.P knew that was a façade.

'I will clean up your mess.' Diego attempted to sound harsh, but he failed. He knew so as well. His shoulders slumped. 'For I am not that callous of a man, no matter what I am or how I appear to be.'

H.P sat with her hands in her lap. She watched as Diego cleaned. He had a harsh manner in which he carried himself. However, H.P could not discern whom he was angry with. Her? For allowing her mind t slip? Or himself? For allowing such burns to ruin the hands of another woman he perhaps cared about?

Minutes later, before Diego finished, the older members of the clergy arrived in the kitchen. They were horrified by the smell of burned flesh; a smell that neither noticed. Diego hadn't noticed it because it was a smell he associated deeply with his mother. H.P hadn't noticed it because she was still dazed and, truth be told, she thought it an odour which lingered on her if she neglected her hygiene.

When Diego finished up cleaning, dinner had been delayed by perhaps ten minutes and routine was very important and they had to pray for their waste. There was no time to replace the rice which would have thickened the serving size so, Diego decided he would go hungry. In stead of H.P, he served up their meals.

They sat once more in their places. They said their grace and they begged for forgiveness. Diego prayed for swift recovery on H.P's behalf. Then, they concluded with a mumbled amen and ate in silence.

Dinner was pitiful. More so than usual, by anyone in this room's standards. For some reason, it dragged out longer. Perhaps because there was even less to eat than usual. Either way, it was relieving to leave once they all agreed they were finished.

Sisters Agatha and Bridgette elected to clean the crockery. With that, Sister Josephine and Father John were also free to leave. Diego did not care for the others, so he simply took H.P by her hand and led her through the austere halls to her room.

'Allow me, Sister Felicity.' Diego said.

He was saying that very frequently now. He opened the door to H.P's room and a draught of hot air was released.

'I'm fine, I swear.' H.P said.

Diego's lips quirked. He didn't believe her. She wasn't lying though. She doesn't think so anyway. After all, now that she was aware of her "tells" now that Diego had pointed them out. Her lungs didn't fill with something akin to tar, nor did she tug on the hem of her clothes. She did nothing of the sort.

'No, no, you should rest.' he insisted.

H.P turned her back to him. She sighed.

'Very well then.'

'Skirting sin, are we?'

H.P did not reply but she recalled him saying something on Sunday night. She swallowed.

'I'm tired, Diego. Please hurry up.'

Diego unzipped the dress and he hooked his fingers under the fabric of her dress. He slowly revealed her skin. She wore a plain, beige bra and she had broad shoulders. He was surprised by her physique which was hidden by all that modest fabric she wore. She was very mannish. He was more feminine than her in build.

'Something the matter?' H.P asked.

She could feel his eyes on her. She blushed. This was indecent. This was immoral. It excited her.

Diego unclasped her bra. He licked his lips. The strap that went around her back fell away and more of her skin, creamy and untouched, revealed. It was delicious. He removed her clothes. They fell into piles around her sturdy ankles. She wore silky bloomers which were a shade close to cocoa brown.

'My bedclothes are right there.' H.P said and she pointed to the folding on her bed.

Diego passed by her. He made a vehement point of not infringing upon her holy visage. She was but a mortal woman, he was certain, but she was holier than him. To witness that which belonged only to God, that was a sin that Diego would not commit today.

H.P was flattered by his chastity. He returned to behind her.

'Arms up.' He said.

'Lust is a sin.' H.P informed Diego as she raised her arms slightly.

Diego got on his tip toes as he tried to pull her night gown over her head.

'I am aware.' he said.

The fabric unfolded along h.P's torso with a flap. He caught the smell of oatmeal soap in its wake. He hovered slightly closer than before now that H.P was decent again. He inhaled deeper.

She was wrong. Very wrong. The dowdy smell of pauper soaps could be very arousing on the right woman; even a holy woman. He smiled, and his hands hovered on the pleats of her waist. His mouth was aligned with the crooked of her neck. He paused. He forced himself to stop.

Diego had to will himself to remain human in that moment. A bestial lust nearly took over: one born of blood and other perversities. There was a part of him romantically enamoured with H.P. There was another part of him murderously enamoured with her and the idea that he could sink his teeth into her flesh and tear her apart.

He reared back.

'Ahem. Good night, Sister.' he said with a cough.

H.P turned back around. She seemed blithe; ignorant to his lewd desires of both sexual and wrathful voracity.

'Thank you.' she said.

'You're welcome.' Diego replied. 'Good night.'

'Good night.' H.P said.

She placed her hand on Diego's shoulder. Every nerve jolted alive inside his body. His body heated immeasurably because of her simple action. She leaned in. He stiffened. She pecked his cheek. Heat bloomed beneath her lips. Swirls of hot and cold went through both their bodies before, H.P finally lifted her lips off of him.

'I-I shouldn't have…' H.P rambled.

'It's fine.'

The tips of his ears were red. His eyes were alight with awe. She felt as though she had just dirtied herself in a way that she should not have dared to try. He felt cleansed. He backed away.

He stumbled into a desk and his fingers brushed over a cup. He turned around slightly. H.P's heart pounded.

On her table, there was cup. It was full, and it was full of stale water. She had no memory of it. No, that is a lie. She does have memory of it. This morning. Her heart pounded.

'Here, allow me.' Diego said.

He slipped his fingers around the cup and he gracefully left the room. He flipped over the switch. H.P remained standing in the darkness. The twinkling light of stars filtered through her stained-glass window and bathed her in lights ever-changing, ever-shifting.

It wasn't a dream.

No matter how hard she wished it. It wasn't a dream.

Was tomorrow Thursday? Could tomorrow please be Thursday.

No matter how hard she wished it. The following morning was not Thursday, but Wednesday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Flirtations of Temptation**

 **Chapter 4**

 **:**

When morning broke, H.P awoke. Darkness still swirled in her mind. She placed her forehead in the palm of her hand. She felt nauseous as memories of yesterday were aroused by her waking mind.

She had pecked Diego Brando's cheek last night. How immoral.

As she wrapped her head around her and Diego's actions, she unwrapped the bandages from her hands. Her digits were fat and fleshy, still healing from her burns. However, the more she rubbed them out, the more they moulded to her wishes. She stretched her fingers and they seemed to be like "normal" but "normal" was something difficult to remember. Either way, H.P had recovered quite well from her injury though she was still a touch numb. She was sure it was nothing that time couldn't fix. However, as she was tending herself, her mind wandered elsewhere as her eyes watched her movements uselessly.

She dearly wished today was Thursday for Thursday was the day in which confession was open to both the public and to the ladies of the convent. H.P was in dire need of some of God's grace. Merely saying her prayers weren't enough anymore. She needed a cleansing sanctioned by God for her sins were accumulating at a rate faster than usual. She could divine it by the colour of her hair: pink.

Not auburn.

So, she bedecked herself in her nun's habit and went to breakfast. It was there, where she encountered trite gossip. Though, only she would regard it as gossip as the other women of the convent did not believe in such trivialities, though their hypocrisy would later be known. Anyhow, apparently, an odour was beginning to arouse suspicion outside of Diego's bedroom.

H.P was not certain as to how she ought to regard such news from her senior Sisters. She didn't have much association with the guest quarters, even with Diego hanging about Though, if it was somehow related to why Diego was not at breakfast this morning then that may transmute gossip into helpful information. But for now, it ought not to be a problem. Men his age tended to stink though it did not smell like rot. Men Father John's age also tended to stink though it did not smell like rot.

It was dear Sister Josephine, of course with a sensitive nose and hypochondriac demeanour, reporting the smell of rotting meat outside the private quarters. Still, H.P promised she would investigate as Diego was her responsibility. The thought of which in this instance, the cleaning of messes, made H.P briefly consider Diego something of a pet.

When H.P finished her breakfast, she got up and she went to place her bowl in the sink for Father John to clean up when she heard a knock at the door. Not the church door, she wouldn't have been able to hear that but a knock on the convent's door.

The sisters, still at breakfast, exchanged glances. H.P sighed.

'I will get it.' H.P told them.

She strode off and greeted a man at the side door which was the convent's main door. She held onto the door and a man in dowdy overalls and a severe five o'clock shadow smiled nervously.

'Hello.' she said.

'Morning, morning, um, uh…'

'Sister Felicity.' H.P filled the farmer's sentence for him.

'Yes, yes, good morning, Sister Felicity.' he rambled. He hoisted up a wire tray and smiled. 'I've brought donations to your fine church. I thought it the right thing to do.'

H.P smiled curtly. She eyed up the jug filled with milk. She now recognised how she knew this man; he was the owner of the dairy farm nearby.

'Thank you for your kindness, good sir.' H.P said.

With his free hand, he scratched behind his ear. 'Aw, its no problem at all. I've only brought it over here because its milk from a new cow me and my missus have had to bring in.'

'Oh?' H.P murmured.

He laughed. 'Recently, one of our best cows went missing. We aren't used to the flavour of the milk this one makes yet, so we figured it would be best to move it along to someone deserving, don't worry. We've got plenty of other cows. Wouldn't be much of a dairy farm if it only had the one, eh?'

H.P swallowed. A brief musing had fell upon her earlier. She could use this man to inquire about the identity of Diego's mother and she could use him to find out if Diego was lying. But, with yesterday's events fresh in her mind, she thought it best if she did not speak on the matter at all but still. A question tiptoed off her tongue regardless.

'This cow. Did it go missing… yesterday morning?'

'Either that or the night before.' He replied.

That just about confirmed H.P's suspicions. Before she could reply, the sound of footsteps roused both their attention. Diego Brando made an appearance. His clothes, however, did not.

'Good morning, dear Sister Felicity.' he said with a yawn as he meandered up to H.P.

She stiffened like a board. Her eyes could have bored into the door's sill because of how intently she kept her gaze low and averting. The farmer was sputtering. He was utterly aghast because of Diego's behaviour.

He placed himself perfectly behind H.P to obscure himself. A smile creased across his face as his presence was exuded as thick as fog. H.P remained a staunch and pure energy within the thickening miasma brought upon by Diego's sin.

'And good morning to you too, dear sir.' Diego said.

'I know you.' The farmer growled.

'Oh? You do?' Diego raised an eyebrow and a curious voice.

'Yeah!' the farmer growled. 'You're the bastard the coppers were chasing the other night. Wanted for murder no less.'

Diego laughed cruelly. 'My reputation precedes me.' He commented, amused.

'Jesus Christ, I could never harbour such a fiend in my house. Not for a million pounds. Not for anything.' he told H.P. He handed over the milk. 'I'm sure you'll wanna get out of the house soon, return the jug when you finish up the milk.'

'Thank you.' H.P said.

The farmer scurried off, as did her chance to ask about Diego's mother. Though H.P supposed with Diego's company, that would be rude. She huffed.

'Why are you naked?' she asked.

'Why are you clothed?' Diego retaliated like a child; like he had with their game from yesterday.

Diego curled up slightly closer to H.P. She could feel him press onto her shoulders and arms. She could feel him even through the thick fabric of her habit. She shuddered. He was cold.

'I hear that in extremely cold weather, a sort of madness sets in that causes people to strip down. I also hear that the best way to conserve body heat is for it to be exchanged between nude individuals – no lust or lewdness necessary.' Diego informed her.

H.P shuffled away from him and handled the jug of milk carefully. She kept her eyes low.

'Please, just go and put some clothes on before you give the sisters a fright.' H.P asked.

'For you? Alright.' Diego huffed.

When he left, H.P felt warm again. She felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She felt as though she no longer had to hold her breath. And yet, she missed it. She tries not to wonder why because soon, she will have all the time in the world to miss Diego's presence for he will be arrested, and he will be arrested soon.

It's Wednesday after all.

Tomorrow. Then Friday. And then, he would be gone.

H.P wandered back into the thick of the convent. Diego returned wearing the same clothes he's been wearing all week. He seemed antsy though. He pulled and tugged at his clothes. They were beginning to smell, and they were beginning to look overly rumpled and crumpled. It was undignified.

'We will leave you with today's chores, Sister Felicity.' Sister Agatha said.

'Yes. We will handle the dusting and mopping.' H.P replied.

'Good, good.' Sister Josephine replied, skeptically.

Diego sneezed. 'Don't worry, I'll keep the mucous inside my nose and not on the good china.' He said, sarcastically.

The Sisters escorted themselves not only outside the room but outside the convent. Diego wondered what sort of chores they were up to today. He was beginning to dislike being confined to the convent. Still, he relented to H.P's chiding regarding chores quite quickly.

He was slowly becoming more obedient, for lack of a better word.

Today, Diego was strangely enthusiastic about doing things. It was like he was desperate to move, to do anything. He raced around the convent with the mop: over and over, and over again. He was vigorous and thorough despite the apparent speed and hastiness. He was bizarre.

Yet, it still didn't seem to be enough.

Due to the unrelenting vehemence Diego used for cleaning, he worked up quite an appetite but what they had on offer during lunch, was not enough even though it was quite heavy. They had creamy pasta with shredded cheese; a delicacy. Likely to celebrate the middle of the week which meant the time with Diego was lessening and becoming fleeting. Even H.P had to agree, it was something worth celebrating. Or maybe they were just overcomplicating things.

Either way, after lunch, in their slothful hours until dinner, Diego complained of hunger. He also complained of the cold. But, he complained of many things which H.P did not think to be worthy to whinge of. So, she ignored him.

Once more, they were idling their time in the parlour. They were overlooking the garden and talking about anything and everything. H.P had a book open. She was sitting upright on the lounge whilst Diego paraded around the parlour, pacing, and was wearing his sheets as a cloak.

Diego edged his fingers along the spines of books on the shelf. He was right. There was little to be read and it was a sparse, aging collection. The book H.P was currently reading, she had read twice already back-to-back.

Diego paused and it was like something caught his eye outside. He turned his head and a smile crept along his face.

'Do you remember what I said the other day? On Monday, when we were picking flowers?' he asked.

H.P sighed. 'I believe I do.' she replied.

'I told you "Tomorrow night, it will rain", mark my words.' Diego said.

'And I believe I replied: "Consider them marked" – is something the matter, Diego?' she asked.

'Well,' Diego began pointedly, 'yesterday was Tuesday. And for it to have been Tuesday yesterday, that must mean it was Monday's tomorrow yesterday.'

H.P followed his logic. Though, it made her head ache. She could feel herself bobbing up and down as she tried to follow the rhythm of his peculiar pace. He continued.

'And look,' he made a sweeping motion with his hand, the sheet on him dangled, and H.P's eyes followed, 'it looks wet outside.'

He grinned. 'That would mean, it rained last night.'

H.P slid her bookmark into her book carefully then got up. She rested her hands on the windowsill and tried her best to scan the garden from where she stood. Her forehead bumped against the lukewarm glass. Her gaze flitted about.

On the lopsided pavement, she saw mud and puddles. She saw the twigs on the trees ache, overwhelmed with water. When they moved, it was flicked about. As far as she could tell, the plants had not been watered today as they usually did that in the evening.

'I think you might be right.' H.P relented as she moved away from the window.

'Excellent, let's see if I can be right twice.' Diego said.

H.P nearly laughed as she sat herself down again. Her fingers drummed on the paperback cover.

'And what will you be right about twice today?' she asked.

'Is it possible that your name is… Hannah Peart?' Diego asked.

'No, it's not possible.' H.P replied.

'Darn.' Diego muttered. He sighed, shoulders slumping dramatically. 'Though I will admit, and you won't hear me admit this often, that was not one of my better guesses.'

H.P swallowed. 'I could,' she began, choppy, 'I suppose I could,' her finger curled into her palm and she became white-knuckled, 'I suppose I could reveal to you why I chose "Felicity" as my patron saint. As, um, as a consolidation prize, I suppose. After all, you have two guesses left.'

'Unless I begin to bombard you with guesses.' Diego interjected.

'Do you intend to do so?'

He scratched his chin and his brow furrowed. 'No, I don't intend to do so.'

'Well then, do you accept this consolatory prize?'

Again, Diego paused and then, he sat down next to her. He crossed one leg over the other and fluttered his eyelashes at her.

'I would be delighted to accept this consolidation prize.' Diego announced.

H.P became nervous. She fumbled with her fingers. Pressing them into one another as she tried to get her story straight. She didn't know why she was nervous. She told this story once every two weeks at confession. She could even consider it practice for tomorrow's session. However, given that it was Diego she was conversing with, not God, she had every right to be terrified of how this iteration of her story – her most personal story – would go.

She took a breath. It did little to cleanse her of her worries, of her sins, but it did help ease words onto her tongue. She took another breath and closed her eyes. This time, she was able to ease those words off her tongue, out of her mouth, and in the stale air of the parlour where Diego waited expectantly.

'Are you familiar with Saint Felicity of Rome?'

'No, can't say I am.'

'She is the patron saint of parents who have lost a child in death; death of children; martyrs; sterility; to have male children; widows…' H.P listed off the things the woman was known for then paused for a short moment.

'I feel a sort of kinship with her, much like you must feel a kinship for Saint Anthony of Padua, I feel a kinship for Saint Felicity of Rome. She came from a well-off background. Rich with wealth, rich with love, but was pious and devout nonetheless. She accumulated the wrath of pagans at the time… So, they tried to sacrifice her and her children to their gods. I don't feel as though my life story echoes that, but I do understand the sacrifice that can come with family and family love, in my own way… I'm not making much sense, am I?'

She couldn't bring herself to say it. Not right now, not to Diego. Her hands shook. Her fingers were like candles, they dripped with wax. Her flesh was sliding down her digits in clumps. Laughter bubbled to the top of her throat and it died. Was suppressed. She hid her hands in her lap.

Diego got up.

'Boring.' he stated.

'I know. I'm not a very good story-teller.' H.P replied.

'Sacrifice and family, pfft.' he scoffed.

She thought about his story from yesterday. They had lived remarkably different lives yet, intertwined nonetheless. For love, his mother had died. For selfishness, someone dear to H.P died. It was strange. Between the two of them, he was supposed to be the beacon of vice, not virtue. Between the two of them, she was supposed to be the beacon of virtue, not vice. Somehow, their roles had reversed, and both had blood on their hands regardless.

It disgusted H.P.

Just a little longer though. Tomorrow was so close.

And, by that logic, Friday was close too.

Diego pulled out a book from the shelf.

'What's this…?' he mused as he rustled through the pages.

H.P's eyes dipped below the cover and she tried to make out the title. Diego's fingers were spread along it. The cover was an aged purplish colour. She half-recognised it but couldn't place it, at least not until Diego came to his own conclusion.

'My word!' he exclaimed, amused. 'I thought you religious lot wouldn't care for this sort of rot?' He chuckled. 'I just rhymed; I'm a poet and I didn't even know it.'

H.P rolled her eyes. 'What're you going on about?'

'This!' Diego said, eyes bright, as he turned the book around so H.P could read it; not that she could from the distance they were at. 'Its some sort… astrology book.'

'Oh, that.' H.P said, remembering the events which had led to the convent acquiring such a book. 'A year or two ago, some traveling Romani folk gifted us that as thanks for letting them stay. Nice people, very energetic.'

'Not murderers?' Diego asked. A snarl of a smile slipped across his face.

'No, not murderers.' H.P affirmed.

'Still, it's interesting.' Diego replied.

He continued to investigate pages that caught his interest and then he would rapidly flick through them again. If he was content to do that, then H.P thought she might pick up her book and read it once more too. She found it easy to ignore Diego even though he was pacing terribly throughout the parlour. Still, she found his footsteps a pleasant white noise until they ceased. It would appear that he had found what he was looking for.

'Did you know I'm a Taurus?' he asked.

'No, I didn't know that.' H.P replied.

'Yes, a Taurus. Born May sixteenth. Anyways, listen to this… does this not sound like me?' he asked. He cleared his throat. 'Negative Taurus traits are considered to be as follows: stubborn, possessive, materialistic, uncompromising… They have a love for wealth, good food, and luxury in general. Oh? What's this… advice on how to attract the Taurus male? A dislike of artificiality with a strong desire for trust? Hm, how peculiar, I haven't a clue if that would attract me at all. Oh, but I will admit: a delicious, home-cooked meal definitely would appeal to me.'

H.P huffed. 'Thank you for sharing.'

He looked up from his book. 'What about you, H.P? What's your star sign?' he asked.

'I haven't a clue.' H.P confessed.

'You're so dull.' Diego complained. 'Alright, what's your birthday?'

H.P paused. Her lips pursed together in thought. She could feel herself forget. They didn't celebrate birthdays here due to the fact those who lived here were closer to death than to birth. Still, she did know she was twenty-three. Then, she remembered. Wildflowers picked and a chirpy voice: "Happy birthday, Sis!"

'April third.' H.P replied after an embarrassingly long silence.

Diego flicked all the way back to the beginning of the thick book with a relatively unbroken spine. He hummed, and he began to pace again. H.P tucked her nose back in her book. She soon came to the conclusion, as she was reading, that today must be an unusually slothful day for her despite Diego's energy. She thinks as much because she can feel herself doze off as she reads.

Though, perhaps that's not accurate. She could feel her eyes close sleepily, yes, but it wasn't like she was accidentally lulling herself into a nap. It was slightly different than that. Similarly, dreamy perhaps, but not correct. It was more aching than peaceful.

'Ah!' Diego's voice pierced her reverie.

'Yes?' she prompted.

'April Third. That makes you an Aries. The sign of the ram.' Diego replied.

'Hm… What does that supposedly mean for me?' H.P asked, facetiously.

'The first sign in the cycle, and as such they are considered the "baby" sign. Though, that must not be accurate in your case… you are very much an old soul, aren't you? Or is it just from spending too much time in this convent with those other, old birds?'

'I haven't a clue.' H.P replied.

'A fire sign, ah, that's you. You have such fiery hair after all.' Diego continued.

'No, that's not accurate either.' H.P interjected.

He huffed. 'I'm speaking, H.P, I don't appreciate being interrupted.'

H.P nodded. Diego smiled.

'Let's see… Aries traits: moody, honest, determined, confident, courageous… impulsive. Does any of that sound like you?' Diego asked. A snarl crept into his voice.

This was likely one of those moments in which he was trying to trap her. H.P did not mind. After all, she sensed none of her self in any of those things.

'No. I don't think it does.'

Then again, she sensed little of herself in her self.

Diego began moving around the room again. He seemed riled up because he hadn't been able to goad H.P. H.P was feeling secretly chuffed about that. It was fun to get him into a tizzy.

H.P turned the page of her book, but her wrists grew weaker and weaker. It was like there was wax pooling in her lap, but it wasn't wax. It was flesh turned to a cream-like consistency. It didn't bother H.P. She barely noticed it, though it was kind of warm. Then, it was like her bone had withered into nothing. She dropped her book.

And she dropped her hands.

Both landed with a thud. Diego huffed.

'Allow me.' he said.

'Alright.' H.P relented with a shrug.

She stared down over her knees. Her hands were on the floor. Her book was on the floor. Neither of those facts were particularly alarming.

Diego sat down next to H.P and he placed the book on the other side. He bent down and picked up H.P's hands.

'When did your burns heal…?' he asked as he pressed upon her fingertips.

'Sometime last night.' H.P replied. 'Perhaps when it rained.'

'Perhaps when it rained.' Diego echoed.

He allowed one hand, H.P's left hand to remain his lap. He began to fasten her right hand onto the fleshy, dripping stump that was once her right wrist. He was not particularly perturbed by what was happening. Nor was H.P.

'Now anyways,' he said as he waited for the flesh to recognise itself, 'the Aries woman is a charismatic type of person, natural leaders too. Supposedly extremely passionate during sex… what a shame about that chastity vow of yours; I'd love to test that theory. I don't believe I've laid with an Aries before… Anyways, the Aries woman enjoys being impressed but remaining in control. Does that sound like you, hypothetically?'

H.P paused. She glanced down at her wrist. Diego's hands were scaly; his nails, more like claws. They slipped off of her. She flexed her hand and each finger individually. She placed her index finger on her chin.

'I don't believe so but then again, as a nun, I have not dedicated much time to that train of thought.' H.P replied.

She stretched out her other hand and Diego aligned her other wrist with her other hand. He gazed into her eyes. She had such lovely eyes. They were a dark brown like loamy soil after a flood.

'Forgive me if I have forgotten, but how long have you been in service to God?' he asked, his voice was calm and gentle.

It didn't suit him.

'Since I was fourteen.' H.P replied without hesitation.

'My, that is a long time. And you've been unquestionable in this pursuit?' he asked.

His fingers coiled around H.P's wrist. His fingers dug in and it was like he was being absorbed into her flesh. He wasn't afraid of it though, even as it dripped between his fingers and over his knuckles.

'No, not unquestionably. I have had my doubts, my concerns… my darkest times in which I wonder if I have wandered from my God's path? But, just like a stray lamb who has wandered from the shepherd's guiding hand, I will be returned to my pasture once more.'

'But what if… a predator gets you first? Before your shepherd?' Diego asked, and he licked his lips.

H.P noticed that his pupils were slits. His teeth – particularly his canines – seemed sharper. The way he dragged his tongue, long and thick, over his chapped lips seemed primal. Yet, she wasn't scared. Perhaps she ought to be; she had been before, but not any longer.

'A predator?' H.P asked. 'Like… the Devil? Or one of his servants?'

'No,' Diego replied, resolute, 'like a monster? A scary monster?'

'A monster?' H.P repeated.

'Yes. An extremely terrifying, scary monster.' Diego confirmed.

'I would take it all in stride. I would do as God would want, as the saints who watch over us all would want: I would fall if need be, I will be devoured if need be.' H.P replied.

'Are you… certain? Is that what the lamb of the stars would want or is that what God would of you, his lamb?' Diego asked, punning.

H.P did not have a reply for him. Or at least one that would satisfy them both. What a peculiar question.

Diego yawned and he let go of H.P's hand. He wriggled about next to her, getting himself comfortable on the dowdy, worn-out lounge. H.P bent down and picked up her book. When she had settled, so did he. He placed his head on her shoulder. She didn't mind even though it was far too intimate for her liking but, it would appear that he intended to sleep.

He had wrapped himself up in his sheet, legs tucked in before the other end of the lounge. His eyes fluttered closed and his breathing changed. He looked serene. He looked innocent, even. It was not a look that suited him for he looked far too vulnerable and yet, it was nice. This was a new side to him.

H.P continued to read her book. Diego napped with her. They spent the afternoon like that. It was peaceful, nice. Which was why, later, when dinner had yet to pass, things became all the more frantic when they had gone wrong.

It was Sister Agatha and Sister Bridgette's turn to make dinner. They had prepared a modest meal of seared fish and garlic bread. It had been delicious by the convent's standards; pitiful by Diego's but he had eaten regardless. He was ravenous until he was ravenous no more.

Diego had passed out at the dinner table. His face smashed into his plate, licked clean. The porcelain shattered around him, but he was uninjured. It had been as though his skin had been impervious to the sharp edges.

Sister Agatha screamed but that did not stir him. Terrified, H.P reached out. She had expected a fever. He was ice cold. He twitched and shivered at her touch. Diego whimpered, even. It was pathetic and unbefitting of him. He had been fine earlier, or so H.P thinks. Hopes.

No one had any sort of clue as to what sort of malady had come over him but, he was H.P's responsibility. Even when ill, especially when ill.

With no assistance, H.P was forced to bring him to his quarters. It was true. A foul odour was wafting out of his room. With one of his arms slung across her back, his feet dragged against the floor. He sputtered but he seemed to recognise that the creaking door was his.

'Don't worry Diego. I will be with you all night if need be.' H.P whispered.

She dragged him into his room and helped to bed. He flopped down and refused to cooperate. She had to tuck him into bed as though he were a petulant child, but she could tell by the way he burrowed into his thin sheets that he was grateful.

His teeth chattered, and his eyes were weary, but he was able to speak. He hadn't been able to do so for the past fifteen minutes or so.

'I'm sorry.'

Of all the things H.P had expected Diego to say, it had to be that.

'I'm so hungry and cold.' Diego's voice was muffled beneath the sheets so H.P had to strain her ears to hear him correctly. 'I'm sorry for making you take care of me.'

'Diego, it's fine.' H.P said, and she caressed the lump which she thinks is his head. She could feel his ears beneath the sheet. 'It is my duty to take care of the sick. What are your symptoms?'

'I'm not sick!' Diego roared.

He tried to get up for emphasis, but he was too weak. It shamed him. His brows furrowed together when he realised he hadn't the strength to move.

'Alright, then what can I do to make you feel better?' H.P asked.

'I'm not sick…' Diego murmured. 'I'm just cold and hungry. This part of England is agreeable with someone of my… temperament, shall we say.'

'Diego!' H.P snapped. 'I don't care, just tell me how I can help.'

'Argh, fine...' he grumbled. 'I just need something to eat and something to keep warm.'

His voice dissolved into sputters and coughs. It tugged on H.P's heartstrings. She looked around and thought about how empty the kitchen was. There was no time to boil water for a hot water bottle either. She thought about how warm she was. Her skin prickled.

Diego coughed. 'I have an emergency stash of food in this room.' he confessed.

'You… do?' H.P mumbled, eyes widening, and her heart skipped a beat.

She made it a point to breathe shallowly but it emanated throughout the room. She suspected that she knew what this "emergency stash of food" was. She sincerely hoped, and prayed, that she was wrong.

Diego emerged from underneath the sheets. He was pale, shaky. He lifted a finger and pointed towards the wardrobe. H.P swallowed. He spoke.

'I keep it in there.' he said.

H.P opened the wardrobe slowly. Something tumbled out and onto the wooden floorboards. It reeked of death. She did not gag though despite her repulsion which left her coughing and covering her mouth.

A half-eaten, dead cow had tumbled out.

'Br-Bring it closer.' Diego demanded.

H.P gripped tightly onto its gnawed foreleg and she dragged it closer. Diego looked up at her. There was something wrong with his face. But, she couldn't tell in the room with its curtains draw tight.

If H.P did not know better, she would say a rash of an unusual colour – blue – had spread across part of Diego's face and that his sharp teeth were unusually protruding from his mouth. She would even say that some sort of writing was beneath his left eye.

'Could you please…' Diego murmured. 'I need to be kept warm.'

H.P was terrified. She avoided the cow and she climbed onto the bed. It squeaked and creaked with her weight. It appeared to dislike having two people on it. Truth be told, H.P disliked it very much as well.

Diego grabbed part of the cow and he began to eat it. Their backs rested against each other and every movement was mirrored in the other. H.P flinched every time she heard bones snap or meat get torn from it. It was raw and rotting. Diego was eating it without issue.

'It's going to make you sick.' H.P weakly scolded him.

Diego ignored her. She clamped her hands over her ears. She brought her knees to beneath her chin.

When Diego finished eating, he swung back around. He clung to H.P's side, his body curved around her. His forehead rested on his pillow, but his chin poked her rear.

'Diego.' H.P said.

He grunted to acknowledge her, but it was apparent he wanted to sleep.

'I…' H.P fumbled with her words. 'If it helps, I will stay here the night with you.'

'Good.'

H.P slowly undid her nun's habit and she threw it over them like it was an extra blanket. She undid the clasp on her bra, it was lobbed towards the end of the bed. H.P held herself steady as she laid down next to Diego. He made room for her, but he quickly clung to her again.

His breath on her bare back was terrifying. It made her heart pound. It was too intimate, it was too erotic. It was a simple, inaction laced with murderous and monstrous intent. H.P did not feel as though she was going to survive until morning but, she closed her eyes. She tried to ignore him. He could sleep fine. She would try as well even though her mind raced with questions and fears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Flirtations of Temptations**

 **Chapter 5**

 **:**

Thursday morning was the most difficult morning. H.P struggled to get out of bed. Diego slept like the dead. She was careful to manoeuvre around him. She could feel that he was much warmer now. That gladdened her. It meant that he may not be ill anymore. He was healthily warm, and his skin was clear. He did not bear a rash of the like, not like last night anymore.

H.P got onto her knees and reached down the bed. She grabbed her bra. It hung off the edge precariously and had somehow, not fallen off its perch during the night. She fastened it behind her back and felt a tad bit more comfortable, but it didn't wholly negate the fact she had spent the night in a bed with a man and just in her hosiery. It was a very terrible and promiscuous feeling, but Diego hadn't touched her at all.

Though, it's hard to tell. She had slept in an uneasy state. H.P had tried not to move lest she disturb him. Diego may have done the same, but she still remembered phantom touches. Grazes, perhaps by accident, perhaps not.

H.P swallowed. She had been breathing shallowly for the whole of she had been awake. Now, she dared to breathe deeper. She did not detect a stench. This concerned her deeply. She now dared to look past Diego's body and over the side of the bed. As far as H.P could discern in the misty morning darkness, there was not a shred of meat left on the bones of the cow carcass she had fetched for Diego last night.

On the bare floorboards, bones that were dry and gnawed on laid in a messy pile. They were perfectly clean. Still, H.P wanted to wretch. She could feel bile bite at the back of her throat.

Diego made a muffled noise. Blearily, he opened one eye and gazed up at H.P. He grabbed onto her hand.

'Stay. Sleep.' he commanded her.

'No.' she replied, firm.

She yanked her hand away from him. He wriggled slightly and ignored her. He made another grumbly noise before speaking properly again.

'You have such lovely hair.' he commented. 'Such a beautiful and unusual shade of… pink.'

The nerves that jolted along H.P's spine sparked, turned as alight as electricity. She couldn't take it. Her skin prickled. She swallowed.

'…Yes, it is.' she replied, hesitant but not denying it.

Diego made an odd noise – muffled laughter, perhaps – and then his breathing changed. He was trying to lull himself back to sleep. How useless, H.P thought. The morning had already come and though Diego was a guest, he still had to abide by the rules and routines of the convent.

Though, today was Thursday. Specifically, it was the third Thursday of this month. That mean it had been two weeks since her last confession. That meant that H.P was just as much as a guest here as Diego. Every second Thursday of any given month was special. It was the day that H.P was allowed to be a young woman, not a nun.

For it is more acceptable to be of sin as a young woman than it is to be a nun.

She didn't have to wear her habit today. She could wear slacks and a blouse and a cardigan. She could wear a loose, long dress if she so pleased. She could expose herself for whom she truly was: the person beneath the suppression and the assumed holiness.

Its days like these which are simultaneously the best and worst. H.P loves that it gives her a chance to try again to repent. She hates that it allows the world to get a peek inside of whom she truly is: a killer. A killer with blood on her hands as vivid and in the same colouration of her hair.

Pink. Not auburn.

Delicately, H.P removes herself from Diego's bed. She pressed her toes against the floorboard and there were bones around her ankles. H.P disliked that very much, so she kept her head up. She walked carefully, quietly. She took her clothes and she left.

'Night, night…' Diego mumbled.

'It's morning.' H.P corrected him in a quiet voice.

Leaving the bedroom was just as suffocating as staying in the guest quarters, H.P discovered quite quickly. She had hoped for a tranquil morning, but she was wrong. Diego knew about her hair. She knew about her hair. Now the whole convent knew about her hair – and her state of undress – because of Sister Agatha.

She had been passing by that particular corridor where the guest quarters were nestled. H.P had attempted to slink around the corner, but their paths crossed, and Sister Agatha very loudly screamed because of how indecent it was for H.P to be walking around as she was.

H.P did not apologise though. She had her destination ahead of her. She clutched tightly onto her clothes and kept on walking until she made it to the safety of her private room. It was only there when she could breathe as though she had been cut loose from a noose. She was a touch shaky but overall, fine. She tried not catch glimpses of herself in the mirror on her wall as she went about her chores in her room. She did not need to be reminded of her imperfections.

She said her prayers and she got changed. She wore a lanky skirted dress that was a loamy brown with a pale cream cardigan. She laced a rosary around her neck; a cross falling over where her heart did not lie inside her chest. She idled her time. She waited until she could slip into the kitchen unnoticed. Confessionals didn't start for another hour, perhaps two depending on how bad Father John's knees were.

So, for now, H.P bided her time. She ate her breakfast in peace. She had the kitchen all to herself. The others of the convent knew better than to disrupt this iteration of herself on this particular day of the month. H.P attempted to disregard time for she knew the minutes on a clock were like a pot watched. It does not undergo any sort of metamorphosis.

Still, she was excited. She need it out of her system. She needed her sins laid bare much like she had lain bare next to Diego. She needed Diego out of her system.

Today. Tomorrow. Then, he was gone.

H.P didn't know how to process that. It was the normal flow of time and yet it repulsed her. As much as she disliked his stay, she hated the concept of him leaving. And, speaking of Diego, where was he?

H.P presumed he was still in bed. She wouldn't rouse him from his slumber. She hoped that none of the sisters won't either. But H.P didn't worry too much about that. After all, the others avoided Diego – them both, actually – as though they were carriers of plague. H.P didn't blame them.

After hiding out in her room for a sufficient amount of time, H.P finally and cautiously wandered out. She wisped through the halls. Still no sign of Diego. There was no sign of anyone. Though, today's chores appeared to have been completed.

She went into the front garden and she crossed into the public domain of the Church. At first, her steps had been slow but now, it was almost like she was racing. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she went up the ramp and passed through heavy doors instilled with yellow glass.

In front of her, was a plantstand but rather than bear a bowl of flowers, it had a chamber pot of water. H.P dipped her fingers in it and the water was old, it felt more like oil upon her fingertips. She dabbed it on her forehead and then her sternum and then upon her shoulders. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

The Church was a hallowed place, but it was hard to take seriously. H.P thinks it is because of the close proximity to the school which adjoins onto the church grounds. There were a few people around, dotted in about the long, oaky pews. Some are bowed in prayer, others bowed in reading bibles or books filled with the hymns. It was impossible to tell who had been through confession.

H.P passed the doors of where confessions were taken. Father John was locked in one room and a stranger in the other. Two candles were lit outside of both doors to show that they were in use. However, the smell of extinguished smoke clung in the stale, holy air.

H.P hovered by the makeshift table which masked the entrance to where the bell was. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood and over the spindly spines of weathered books. She picked out a bible from the stack. She glanced around. She could hear ancient mumblings emanate from behind her. Was that Father John's voice or someone else's?

She didn't like it though, so she left. She found a place on an empty pew and she placed the bible next to where she would seat herself. First, she had to pray. She had to welcome herself into this church once more. It felt as though an eternity had passed since she had been here last.

Her forehead bumped against the pew in front of her. There was no one around. She clasped her hands together. She had been praying earlier but still, her fingers felt unnatural to interlock as they were. She kept her lips sealed tight. No thoughts came to her. No prayers. It was just an empty action, an empty gesture. So, she rose, and she sat down.

She could feel the statues stare. She could not feel her the stare of her fellow people either. That was not a relief.

H.P opened her bible. She had read it countless times. She had studied every page, every passage. And yet, she could not identify a single passage which appealed to her and suited her situation. Had she forgotten or was she of a new sin?

She stared at those wafer thin, yellowing pages. The print was tiny and bleary. H.P could not identify a single word on any of those pages and yet, she attempted to read nonetheless. She swears it is not an empty gesture. She wants to improve herself, to find herself in this faint script, but she can't.

'Felicity.'

H.P does not immediately stir at first for she does not immediately realise that she is Felicity.

'Sister Felicity.'

She lifts her head. She blinks. A weary sense of dizziness comes over her like a spell before slowly dissipating. Though she had not been reading, she felt as though she had been. As she gets up, she notices it is just her in the church now. She wonders how long it's been since she had entered the building.

Father John meets her vague gaze. He sighs.

'Come along now.'

H.P enters the confession box. The whiff of smoke catches on her as Father John strikes a match. He lights another candle then disappears into the stall next to her.

The confession box is claustrophobic and reeked of incense. It was dark and shadowy. The chair provided once had a cushion, but it was worn thin from use. There were books piled high behind her and other, assorted knickknacks as well as cleaning supplies. It was an oft neglected part of the church but H.P was used to it. The idea of it becoming clean was awful. Even though, the purpose of it was to provide a place in which one could come clean.

She glimpsed Father John through the delicate crosshatched peep hole in the thin wall that separated them. He looked tired, dreary, aged like the dead. His face was steeped in shadows. He looked harsh and judging but that was not his purpose.

His purpose was to listen.

'You know how it is.' he said.

He was not supposed to say this but, H.P was not to say she was about to say. First, she recited the confessional poem and Father John tuned out. His skin crawled the moment H.P paused and took a breath.

'It had been two weeks since I was last here, Father.' she said.

Her hands shook in her lap.

'I have committed… I have committed many sins, Father. I have lied, I have felt lust and gluttony. I don't know what Diego Brando is, but he feels like witchcraft upon me. He is a devilish man and he tempts me in ways I do not understand. And... And worst of all, I have yet to make suitable penance for my most evil sin.'

H.P wrung out her hands.

'When I was twelve, I killed my brother. We… We were playing in the woods. We were gathering nuts and berries for a snack when we were preyed upon by a bear. We tried to hide… We tried, Father, but only one of us could fit in the crevice we found. We were both hurt… And I – And I pushed him out of the way with the intent to save myself.'

She closed her eyes. Her voice trembled. Tears streaked down her cheeks. Though her tears were thin water, it left a visible trail of erosion in her creamy flesh.

Father John nodded. He had simultaneously heard and not heard a word of what H.P had said. The words changed but the theme of guilt and intention remained. He had heard the story many times since H.P had come to his convent. He had heard the story many times before she had come to his convent, also. He could recite it from hear, just like she could.

'I killed my brother. No matter what I do, I cannot suppress the evil of this sin. It is like a cancer. It breeds and festers inside of me with every thought, every action. No matter what I do. When I breathe, I breathe this evil.'

There was little Father John could do. He supposed it was an accident, but H.P was hung up on the actions. Perhaps there was more intention than just survival behind her actions. Perhaps there were words in this story she had never used before – and never will.

So, Father John replied. 'The Lord hath heard you, sinner.'

H.P trembled. Sinner. She hated that.

'And the Lord appreciates that you are trying so very hard to remain in the grace of his light.' Father John continued. 'And as your penance…'

H.P listened very hard to what Father John had to say next. She took every word upon her body and it sank in, beneath the flesh. She nodded. She could feel her heart lighten as she heavied herself with these commands.

'Understood, Father.' H.P said upon Father John's finishing.

'Your welcome, Felicity.' Father John said. 'Peace be with you.'

'Peace be with you.' H.P replied.

She left the confession booth and felt immediately freed the moment she closed the door behind her. She felt as though she could breathe better, as though some sort of tar or sludge had been removed from her lungs. She genuinely felt like a changed woman.

And it could be noted apparently. Her hair was not pink. It was auburn. A crisp, autumnal shade that was not unnatural or garish.

Father John came out of his booth. 'Felicity.'

HP paused at the second last row of pews. She turned around. 'Yes?'

'If you see that rotten rapscallion Diego Brando sooner than dinner, tell him I am willing to listen to his sins, if he so wishes.'

'Will do, Father.'

Father John grunted in acknowledgement. H.P turned around. He blew out the candle next to his door and then turned to the neighbouring door. He blinked. What a strange curiosity, he happened upon. The second candle was miraculously unburnt. It had been lit and extinguished more than a dozen times today. He had seen it melt. He had seen the wax roll down the candle's side, and yet it was miraculously unburnt.

Had this happened after anyone else's confession, he would have thought it a marvel of his God. However, it had been after H.P's professing of sins so he thought it to be more a devil's marvel than anything holy. He glanced at her. She had already returned among the pews. He noticed her hair. It was strikingly dull. Strikingly not pink. No matter her action, she could do only evil. Everything about that woman sickened him.

H.P clung to her rosary dearly. She said her prayers and she could feel her wishes embed into the beads. She cried; they threaded along her face. Her voice shook but she remained as strong as she could be as she tried to ease the sin of killing her brother because valued her life more. There are no tears worse than those shed from selfishness.

Again, she was unable to track the passing of time in the church. Dust motes drifted in shafts of sunlight which illuminated the church. Afternoon darkness seeped through. Silence was deafening inside the old, wooden building. Christ's gaze was nowhere to be felt, even beneath his tortured statue's eyes.

Eventually, H.P lifted her head and she returned to the convent. She dreaded returning to Diego's side. But he was gladdened to see her.

He had been waiting by the front door for her. The moment it budged, he leapt to his feet and opened the door for her. He smiled with great and seedy vigour.

'H.P, darling, Sister Felicity!' he exclaimed. 'Where have you been all day?'

He extended his hand. Hesitantly, H.P accepted it and he led her further into the building. He closed the door behind them. H.P couldn't explain it, but the gesture made her skin crawl. Many gestures of Diego's made her skin crawl. Meanwhile, there was something that Diego couldn't explain either. There was something different about H.P. And he didn't like that it didn't make his skin crawl. It was as though a part of her – an essential part of her – had been removed.

And as his eyes fell upon her dim hair, it dawned on him. It was as if something essential about H.P had been changed. Not removed.

'I've been at confession.' H.P replied. 'Which reminds me, Father John said if you are interested confessing to your sins, he is happy to extend his time to you.'

Diego scoffed. 'An admission of guilt is likely what he's after. Just one more day, he can put up with me for that long. Likely less, even.'

'Less?' H.P repeated. 'Good, we can't be rid of you sooner.'

'Felicity, dear, you wound me.' Diego mocked the very idea of being hurt.

He paused. They were outside the kitchen, standing by the doorway, but Diego blocks it. His presence swathed her and his eyes sharpen. H.P swallows as she watches something bleed into his face. A bleeding of humanity and monstrosity but her eyes couldn't focus on it. It was like noticing a faint scar, except far more horrifying.

'Come, let's eat.' he said.

His hot breath scatters across her face. His lips twitch and peel back further than necessary, further than possible. His teeth are fang-like.

'Yes…' H.P replied, nervously.

Diego caressed her cheek. She shivered at his touch. His eyes shifted. Stretched and changed before settling in an ellipse. His fingers lift up strands of her hair and he kisses her hair before it slips past.

H.P jerked away. 'What are you doing!?' she shrieked. She raised her arms defensively.

Diego leaned away from her, he slipped around the doorjamb.

'You look prettier in pink, Sister Felicity.' he replied coolly, venomously.

H.P's fingers curled into a fist. 'Your opinion has no bearing on my self-esteem. Flattery is worthless.' she said.

'Useless?' Diego added.

He caught a glimpse of H.P. She was fuming.

'That's not why I told you that… You seem more natural in pink. People like you and I, we deserve to live unrestrained, controlled only by our immediate actions and thought… We deserve it more than others.' Diego said, and he slipped off.

Lies. Filthy, pretty lies to flatter her. H.P was certain. People like him and her, they deserved the opposite. They required restraint wreathed upon them by others, those whom were saner than they are, lest things become… unusual.

In this clearer state of mind, aware of sin and free of thoughtlessness, H.P knew that. She just wished Diego knew that too. She was boiling inside. She could feel her skin prickle. She could feel her back heat up and bubble. Her flesh rippled. She hoped that she was imagining it; borne of rage towards Diego, and not anything.

H.P joined everyone else at the dinner table. Those who had been in charge today of meals, Sisters Josephine and Agatha, had prepared shepherd's pie. Around the fresh from the oven plates of food, they said their prayers then proceeded to eat in silent. H.P ate quietly. Diego ate noisily. His gaze did not leave H.P but she tried to ignore it.

Dinner could not end soon enough. Though she tried, H.P was unable to evade Diego. He was intent on joining her in her room for a chat. She did not allow him in her room Instead, with her back against the door, they chatted outside.

'I wish to guess your name. One guess per day, remember.' Diego said.

H.P huffed. 'Fine.' She relented.

'Is your name… Helen Pace?' Diego asked.

'No.' H.P replied.

Diego sighed. He pouted.

'And let me guess, you want to play one of your incessant games as well? I'm tired, Diego. You should be too; you slept all morning, after all.'

'Do you think I spent all morning sleeping?' he asked. He sounded scandalised.

'…Yes. Sloth is a sin and you are a sinner.' H.P asserted.

'Yes, I am a sinner, but it is not for sloth.' Diego said. 'Blessed is he who cums in the name of the Lord, dear Felicity. My Christ is with me always: above me, below me, inside of me.'

H.P's face began to go red. Her eyes widened. 'Diego!' she gasped.

'I am a man of the cloth.' Diego continued to make innuendos. He jerked his hand about to mimic his act.

A snarly smile crossed his face. He batted his eyelashes at her. H.P felt disgusted. She couldn't believe he had held her hand earlier.

'You had told me that the clothes of a holy woman would not but cause for lust, and yet it incited something terrible in me. Your scent drove me wild. I could hardly sleep last night because we had shared a bed.'

'Diego, that's disgusting.' H.P said, reviled. She turned herself around and opened the door. 'I'm going to bed.'

'Alright, sleep well then. But, just know, I intend to take you on a picnic tomorrow. Just us, relaxing beneath that gazebo, and playing those incessant games of mine.'

'Ugh, fine. But only because we happen to be on kitchen duty.' H.P said. 'I hope you pray for your mistakes tonight.'

'Masturbation is not the evil you were likely taught it is. In some scientific circles, studies have shown that masturbation can be a helpful addition to one's sex life and improve moods.' Diego said.

'Good night, Diego.' H.P said firmly.

The door slammed behind her. It echoed down the halls. Diego sighed.

'Good night, H.P.'

He had mixed feelings about tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Flirtations of Temptations**

 **Chapter 6**

 **:**

Friday was not the blessed day that H.P was hoping it would be. Such a result had felt probable after Thursday. Thursday had not been the blessed day that she thought it would be either. Though, she had been correct in thinking it difficult. It had been difficult for many reasons.

Though H.P is not certain, she thinks that it is likely that her conversation, if you could call it that, with Diego was the cause of her new plague upon herself. She had inadvertently caught a glimpse of herself in her mirror and it had been an astounding, shocking sight. Now, all she could do was stare at her reflection in horror. She ran her fingers through her hair to assess it. Her hair had already begun to regress and brighten. She had streaks of pink underneath the overt auburn.

This was new. H.P was used to her hair slowly, unnaturally dyeing pink but this was too fast. As she examined the strands, she could see beads of sweat drip down the side of her face and she couldn't help but liken these viscous beads of sweat to wax. She could even see her flesh change.

She swiped at her face and gave a hard huff.

'It's it his fault.'

Saying that was easy. It was better to pin the blame on Diego than herself. It was easier and could fit into the rubric of vice and virtue nicely. However, that was ignoring the issue. It was becoming apparent to H.P that her ignorance was not sweet bliss. It was an agonising torture that could not be quelled with suppression. It was only growing worse.

'It is our fault.'

Saying that was slightly more difficult. Diego was influencing her in ways she didn't know possible. When she closed her eyes, the phosphenes collected on her eyelids in constellations of his scaly skin and electric eyes. When she dreamt, she dreamt of him in colours of black, blue, and blood red. He was slowly consuming her every thought. At first, she had rationalised it as being his babysitter. She thought that it was somehow her duty given that she was the only one who could tolerate his strangely monstrous presence.

Then, H.P hesitated, and she could no longer meet her eyes in the mirror. She let her hair fall back and she groomed herself so that she could hide the pink.

'It is my fault.'

Saying that was the hardest of all. For if she said that, and she did say that, that meant accepting more than her brother's death as her fault. H.P was hyperaware that it had been her selfish hands which had spurred the death of her beloved baby brother. However, accept it was her fault that she was like this – pink hair and creamy, sludgy flesh – meant so much more. It meant accepting that there was an evil spirit within her and it held more stake in her soul than any other part of herself.

H.P tore away from that train of thought. It was dangerous and had a myriad of consequences. She had just had to survive today. She had managed to survive the rest of the week. Only one day – mere hours – remained and that did not feel like long at all. Soon, Diego would be a distant thought, a distant memory, a distant nightmarish dream… and a distant love…

Perhaps lust. Perhaps both. H.P sighs as she gets changed, as she dons her nun's habit to hide her guilty sin. As toxic and venomous and enigmatic as he was, he captured her attention and he gave her some back in return. She was stunted in a few ways despite her height, she may joke.

Many ladies of the convents that H.P had once been a part of had led rather exotic lives which had led them down a path where they had encountered sin too many times and had been saved too many times by Jesus Christ, by their God, by whatever it was they saw in religion. H.P has not had that. Well, she has and she hasn't.

She wants religion to cleanse her of her sin. She wants to ensure that her brother is resting paradise, that he does not hate her. However, it is not working, and she can see the stress in herself. Perhaps, she ought to have lived more of life before coming here even though she could not bear the crushing weight of knowing her sin. After all, she never told her parents. They thought it was an accident. H.P knew better. She knew otherwise.

With a weary heart, H.P tried to tell herself that her infatuation with Diego was fleeting. She was a nun. Her heart ought to belong to her God. It did not. It belonged to her and she saw her goods and evils within it and she did not know what to do with it. She only pretended so.

So, she attended breakfast with a scowl. Diego was prompt, unlike yesterday. However, he did rely on her to get them both something to eat. She made porridge and he dusted his bowl quite heavily with cinnamon and brown sugar. She ate hers as plain-tasting as possible. Punishment, perhaps. It did not matter as it did little towards penance.

Diego propped up his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. His fingers curled against his pale cheek. He smiled curtly. His gaze fell upon H.P. She ignored him. She continued to eat. She glanced at his bowl, it was empty and clean.

'I'm going to guess your name.' he said.

'This is your final chance.' H.P reminded him.

'Hot Pants.' he said.

He said the two words as if they belonged together. He said them as if they belonged together like a first name and a family name.

H.P blinked. To say she was nonplussed would be to say the least.

'Hot… Pants?' she echoed.

Diego huffed, petulant. 'I've given up.' He tapped his cheek with his finger. 'I can't think of any more names with the letters "H" and "P" to use. So, Hot Pants.'

His explanation did not help.

'This is your most incorrect guess yet.' H.P chided him.

'Are you sure?' he asked.

H.P frowned. 'Yes, I'm uncertain.' she asserted and then her eyes widened.

Diego's eyes flashed. A snarly smile creased his lips. H.P furtively glanced around. She was shocked. She hadn't realised that it was just them at breakfast. But, breakfast had always been a haphazard and lackadaisical event. With or without Diego's presence.

'Yes, I'm uncertain.' H.P confessed.

'Oh… Do tell.' Diego prompted her.

'I would prefer not.' H.P said, eyes straying, eyes averting.

'But my curiosity is piqued!' he exclaimed.

H.P's eyes trained in on the table. She froze. She couldn't eat. Not to mention, she appears to have lost her appetite anyway.

'I'll simply keep calling you "Hot Pants" as a name for you.' Diego continued.

His words exerted real pressure upon her. She could feel the weight bear down on her.

'I can't remember, okay.' H.P replied defensively.

'Fascinating. And?'

'And I've been calling myself "Sister Felicity" for so damn long.'

'Damn long?'

H.P blushed upon being interrupted. It was not right to cuss.

'For so very long. I forgot, okay? I just know that my initials are "H-P".'

'And they are "H-P" for "Hot Pants".'

'No, they aren't.'

'Do you have any evidence to provide the contrary?'

What H.P – what Hot Pants – provided in contrary was silence. It was apparent she meant "no" for she had forgotten but, that meant Diego had won. His logic – though illogical – was now reigning. Thus, he had christened H.P with a new name. He could not officiate it with water and oil but still, she was now "Hot Pants".

Then, having lost her appetite upon acquiring her new name, Hot Pants and Diego washed up after themselves. Hot Pants scrapped out her leftovers and sent them to the chicken's hatch that belonged to the next-door neighbours. If she was lucky, she would get eggs for breakfast tomorrow. That would be nice. Perhaps an omelet if she could muster up some cheese and chives, if not she could always poach or fry them. There was a lot that could be done with eggs.

It would be a shame that Diego would not be there to enjoy what Hot Pants considered to be a simple pleasure.

Upon finishing up their easy chore, Hot Pants and Diego moved themselves to the parlour. Once more, they found themselves seated and idling themselves with conversations and with books. They sat next to each other, uncomfortably close. Diego seemed to like to cuddle, so he could leach off Hot Pants' warmth. It concerned Hot Pants that she was used to it. Their shoulders digging into each other, their heads resting close to one another; it had meant something once. Something naughty, something illicit, but now it was just domesticity.

Friendship? Something more?

Who knows.

'We should play one last game.' Diego suggested.

'We can do that later at that picnic of yours.' Hot Pants rebuked.

'It won't be the same.' Diego protested.

Huffing, Hot Pants: 'Fine, what did you have in mind?'

'A staring contest.'

Hot Pants raised an incredulous eyebrow.

'A staring contest?'

'Yes. A staring contest.'

'Very well then.'

Hot Pants conceded. She angled herself so that she faced Diego. Diego had pulled one leg up onto the lounge and he held onto his ankle. Hot Pants couldn't help but be reminded of the young boys she sometimes taught at children's liturgy. They often sat like that as well.

They closed their eyes.

'On the count of three…' Diego said, voice trailing off.

'One, two,' they counted together, and then their eyes snapped open: 'three!'

Their game began innocently, innocuously. Their eyes hardened as they stared each other down. Hot Pants hadn't initially intended to take the game seriously but the slow smile that crawled across Diego's face as he attempted to intimidate her sparked a sense of rivalry. Besides, it gave her a rather good excuse to stare at his eyes.

As much as she hated to admit, Diego had gorgeous eyes. She had found herself pondering the electric blue colouring quite a few times, but it wasn't just the colour. It was the way the irises were as malleable as a cat's and the way his eyelashes framed his eyes. There were a good many things about Diego and his enchanting, enamouring eyes of his.

However, after a while, the newness in the appeal of beauty vanished. It was a slow fade introduced to Hot Pants as an overwhelming urge to blink arrived. Soon, illusions began to dance across her vision. They began to dance across Diego's face. To watch, was frightening but her desire to win was stronger.

Diego's eyes widened. His pupils turned to charcoal slits. He dragged his tongue across his chapped lips. His rash returned.

'Is something the matter?' he asked, his voice slowly turning into a growl.

His cheekbones had crusted with something that shone in the shoddy light not unlike a jewel. His face was slowly discolouring: his creamy skin melding with something inhuman, something impossible blue with hues of black and yellow in patterns.

'N-No.' Hot Pants lied.

She gagged upon lying. Her lungs ballooned as something – tar? Sludge? Flesh. – filled them. She couldn't breathe. She coughed and sputtered. She spat out something into her hands with the viscosity of cement and the texture and colour of flesh.

Her discomfort amused Diego.

'Lying is a sin, you know.' he informed her facetiously.

'I hate you…' she murmured.

Hot Pants coughed once more. She closed her eyes for a long time: surrender despite the fact she was boiling with a rage to win. It stiffened her. Then, she opened her eyes.

Diego had returned something close to normal. Normal for someone like him, Hot Pants supposed. She raised her hand.

Diego winced at first, as though worried that Hot Pants would strike him. Then, he was met with a contradictory gentleness. Hot Pants placed her thick digits along the curves of his face. Her fingertips aligned with his temples. She leaned in a little closer. Her breaths husky.

'What are you?' she asked.

'The same as you.' He replied.

Diego allowed his head to fall slightly. Their foreheads touched. They closed their eyes to each other. It felt as though both had forgotten about the staring contest. Though, not quite. Hot Pants was feeling uncharacteristically like a sore loser but this was far more fascinating than victory in a petty game.

'And what's that?' Hot Pants' voice turned even quieter.

Diego lifted his head from Hot Pants' forehead. She didn't realise how heavy it was until the weight was lifted. He came in closer yet so that their personal spaces were truly merged. Their shoulders bumped against each other. He bit her ear and a shiver ran down Hot Pants' spine. It was not necessarily from fear, but she hoped it was.

Then, he spoke: 'A murderer.'

Hot Pants didn't have a reply for that. Smirking, Diego knew he had won not just the game but this also. Though, it was slightly disappointing as it was always far more entertaining when Hot Pants fought back.

They wriggled away from each other. The warmth between them dissipated. She could feel strands in her hair, under her habit, turn a blasted pink. The sensation was disgusting, but also intriguing. To distract herself from it, Hot Pants glanced towards the clock.

'If you want to have that picnic of yours, we ought to start making preparations for that now, that way we still have time to make a proper lunch for the others.' Hot Pants said.

'Booooring.' Diego complained. 'Argh, fine.'

He crossed his arms in protest, but he got up nonetheless. He followed after Hot Pants as they made their way to the kitchen. Upon entering, his arms fell to his sides and he reluctantly obeyed Hot Pants' instructions as she took mastery of the kitchen.

They made sandwiches for themselves and brewed tea to put in a thermos. Hot Pants knew they intended to have roast tonight. She would know, after all, it would be her cooking it after all but she decided to indulge anyway. She made thick cut sandwiches with decadent, thick slices of chicken and lamb. She piled on the salads and kept them on plates underneath towels.

And it was an utter decide when the rest of the convent walked into the kitchen and saw the unorthodox preparations.

'And what might you two be up to?' Sister Josephine asked, aghast.

'We're having a picnic, ma'am.' Diego replied.

'And what are we to have for dinner? This is far too extravagant for lunch.' Sister Josephine said.

'Yes, what are we to have for dinner if we eat all of this now?' Sister Agatha asked.

'Sisters, this is Diego's special request. He has behaved… well, all things considered, this week. I wanted to bid him goodbye with a hearty farewell. After all, this could be the last he sees luxury for a long time.' Hot Pants reasoned. 'There is still enough for you all to enjoy a roast dinner. Don't worry, and besides, we can always rearrange our week and go grocery shopping tomorrow. Or ask our lovely patrons for alms, if you are so concerned.'

Though Hot Pants did not think she had concocted an amusing retort, Diego was amused. He heard a glimmer of sass in her voice and it greatly entertained him. He snickered as he waited for her cohort to reply.

'We will not be joining you for lunch.' Hot Pants added. 'In fact, we will be leaving now.'

Hot Pants gathered up their things and placed them on a tray. She nodded and left. Diego went to trail after her but instead, he paused. He smiled.

'In the name of the son, the father, and the unholy spirit.' Diego said.

He taunted the convent with a sign out that was most vile. Diego did an inverted cross over his chest: beginning with his belly then going to his forehead then left to right across his shoulders. Sister Agatha gasped, and the others scowled. They couldn't wait to be rid of him. Diego could not wait to be rid of them.

After that, Diego quickly caught up with Hot Pants. He overtook her in the parlour and opened the back door for her seeing as how her hands were full. She did not thank him, but Diego did not care. All he cared for was seating himself at the gazebo.

It was just as terrible as he imagined. Cracked pavement and cobwebs. The seats were vaguely wet even though it hadn't rained for quite some time, all things considered. There was little left to talk about and little to see in the backyard. The flowers the mediocre at best. And yet, it was so much more wonderful than he ever thought.

Diego and Hot Pants had spent a lot of time together this week. Their only reprieve from each other's daytime presence had been yesterday, and yesterday had been dreadful. So, it was strangely lovely to sit out in the sunshine as they were. They made small talk over sandwiches and they shared the cup lid of the thermos, exchanging fleeting indirect kisses.

Hot Pants drank the last of the tea. She smiled. She looked over their plates of crumbs. She couldn't believe how much she had eaten, how much they had both eaten. And yet, Diego was grabbing an apple. He held it then used it to gesture towards her.

'Are you going to miss me when I'm gone?' he asked.

'Yes.' Hot Pants replied she was strangely without inhibition with her reply.

The quickness of her reply astonished Diego, 'Truly?'

'…Truly.'

That was more akin to what Diego had been expecting: virginal hesitation wrestled with holy rationality.

'I won't miss you.' Diego replied.

'You, sir, are a mule.' Hot Pants insulted him.

'I think you will find I'm more a snake.' Diego retorted.

Hot Pants rolled her eyes. Diego thought he was so witty. Although, him being more reptilian than mammalian would explain a lot of things. Many things. Hot Pants shuddered. She felt as though she had beholden an epiphany that perhaps she should not have.

He flashed her eyes at her. What gorgeous, dangerous things they were.

'There is a good reason, you may find, as to why I will not miss you.' Diego said.

'Hm? And what would that be?' Hot Pants asked, sceptically.

She lifted her head and gazed out at the sky peeking out from underneath the gazebo. As neglected as it was, she should appreciate it more. It is a simple luxury in an otherwise painfully austere existence, she only just realised that now, though.

'Would you like an apple?'

'Maybe.' Hot Pants replied.

Despite having eaten so much, she was still willing to eat more.

Diego smiled. 'How about we share?' he asked.

'That would be very nice, thank you.' Hot Pants replied.

Diego clasped tightly onto the apple. With little struggle, he split the apple with his hands. Juice spurted everywhere, and Hot Pants shielded herself slightly. It didn't travel as far as to her face though, just across the table.

'You better clean that up.' she told him.

'If I must.'

Hot Pants glared at him. He had to. Diego obliged her lazily though. He swept his arm along the table and the stain spread. Hot Pants picked the apple from his hand as it bypassed her.

She bit into it and made eye contact with Diego. He bit into his half of the apple as well. For a moment, it felt as though they had shared something sinful, something erotic. Fruits, dripping with juice and made of soft flesh, are understandably yonic things. Hot Pants smiled.

'It's nice.' Hot Pants said as though she didn't regularly eat locally grown produce.

'It is.' Diego agreed as though he did regularly eat locally grown produce.

'So,' Hot Pants said, steering the conversation back to where they had begun moments before, 'why is that you won't miss me?'

She licked her fingers as she waited for Diego's reply. This time, she was not scared as she watched the curious rash of Diego's spread across half his face. Half of him morphed and became inhuman. He became the reptilian that Hot Pants suspected that he may secretly be.

'I want to take you with me.' Diego said.

He finished his half of the apple. He mashed it in his teeth. Juices dripped down his chin and remnants of it remained in his teeth. He swallowed hastily – core and all. He was bestial. With one, blue, clawed hand, he dragged his finger on the table. His claw was able to penetrate the cement and carve it as though it were sand. Still, Hot Pants was not scared.

She could feel something change in the air. She continued to eat.

'I've never met someone like you before. You benefit me in ways I've never experienced before.' Diego confessed.

He spoke like he spoke of matters of the mind. However, Hot Pants suspected that he was trying to rationally approach a very irrational thing: love. Ridiculous, seeing as how he – neither of them – were rational people.

'Are you saying that I make your cold blood warm?' she asked.

He smiled, a nefarious twinkle in his eye. 'You do more than that.'

Hot Pants licked her lips. She placed the core of her apple on a plate. She placed her cleaner hand on the table. Diego hesitantly placed his human hand on them. They framed the drawing he had made on the table: D.B + H.P in a crude, anatomical human heart.

'You flatter me.' Hot Pants replied but a tingle was growing under her skin.

'And… would you consider running away with me?' Diego asked.

Hot Pants erred. She disliked the thought of interrupting routine, but she disliked the idea of having to live in shame of herself. Diego was a monster, but he didn't hide it. He was boldly and unabashedly a monster.

She was a monster too, dolled up in a nun's habit to hide her habit.

'Perhaps.' Hot Pants replied.

She didn't know what to reply. She didn't know what ruled her heart as it was mostly guilt.

Diego reverted to normal but normal didn't apply here. Not in the correct fashion, anyway. He craned his neck. There was a slight change in the air. He frowned.

'The word "perhaps" is a mask for "yes" or for "no" – tell me now, dearest Sister Felicity, who is it that you want to be most? Her or the person you tried not to be?'

When phrased like that, Hot Pants knew which she ought to choose. She ought to choose safety, not only to herself but to others. And yet, that was not how her heart rules. She could feel her flesh warm and boil, turn to cream. It started. A great decision which would vastly impact her future like no other.

'Diego,' Hot Pants said, his name slipping from her lips like a sigh, 'it is possible that I love you. And I want to believe that it is possible that you love me but the loves that we have for another they… they aren't appropriate, and I don't believe that they match the expectation we are both yearning for.'

'You speak such sweet nothings… and yet?' Diego prompted.

'And yet…' Hot Pants pondered the meaning of those two words.

Her mind was clear. Clearer than it had been past weeks. Her clarity was slowly revealing the secrets that Hot Pants didn't realise she had been keeping all these guilty years. She didn't feel ailed by her inner monstrosity, but she didn't feel ailed by her ideas of morality.

'And yet…' she mused once more.

Diego grew impatient. 'I realise this is a whole exploring your vices versus virtues moment for you and is going to be life-changing but, I suspect,' he paused tersely, 'we are short on time, dear.'

'Alright.' Hot Pants said.

She got up abruptly. With her sticky, apple juice covered hand, she grabbed Diego's tie. He made a surprised noise as he realised that Hot Pants intended to grab him. She yanked on his tie and smacked her lips onto his. It was the worst kiss he had ever received. It was the best that Hot Pants had ever given as it was the only one she had ever participated in.

It was not romantic in the least. And yet, both closed their eyes to it. They opened their mouths to it. Lewd noises were made. Kissing was far grosser than Hot Pants had ever thought it would be like, though she would prefer not to admit that aloud lest that made her sound immature.

Her mouth burned, and Diego bit her lower lip. The taste of fresh apples was shared. Hot Pants tried to end the kiss, but Diego ripped back. He chewed her skin, her flesh, and he spat it out. Hot Pants didn't bleed, nor did she feel pain. She felt as though she ought to be doing one of those things right now, but she did not.

'How was it?' Diego asked, smarmy.

'I believe we may have time to perfect out technique.' Hot Pants replied.

Her fingertips grazed over where Diego had bitten her. She could feel her lips – her flesh – mould back into shape. She pursed them together, applied as much pressure as she could. She couldn't feel any such weight.

However, before they could get complacent, the door to the convent opened with a crash and a bang.

'There they are, Constable Kelly!' yelled Sister Josephine.

'Diego Brando, you are being arrested for the confirmed murder of your father!' an unknown, male voice rang out to Diego's ironic delight.

Sobbing could be heard in the background. The pitiful voice likely belonging to the sensitive Sister Agatha.

Diego rose to his feet as gracefully as he could. His tail – large, thick, and scaly, dotted with the text "DIO" – unfurled behind him. As he adjusted his tie, his hands turned to claws. He smiled.

'Are you ready to leave?' he asked.

Someone screamed. Someone sounded as though thye were gagging or on the verge of fainting. Such melodramatic reactions were sweeter than sugar to Diego. Hot Pants gave a curt chuckle.

Hot Pants rose to her feet as well. She wished to graceful but instead, she was wobbly. She slowly took off her nun's habit and her hair got caught in the wind. It was a fearsomely bright pink. Diego smiled.

'Your hair truly is a lovely colour.' he commented.

'Thank you, Diego.' Hot Pants replied cordially.

Diego extended his hand to her. Just like she had accepted the apple from him, just like Eve had accepted the forbidden fruit, Hot Pants accepted the serpentine creature before her.

'Thank you, Hot Pants.' Diego replied and for once, he smiled sincerely – neither human, nor monster, but beautiful and wholly both.

Her hands gently pressed into his. There was a moment, a lurid and beautiful moment, in which is felt natural. Hot Pants felt as though her hand had been made to meet Diego's like this in his moment, in this day, in this life. It was perfect.

And then, the hell of such a decision – such an unreligious decision – broke loose.


End file.
